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The  Works  of  Leonard  Merrick 


THE  MAN  WHO 
UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


The  Works  of 

LEONARD  MERRICK 


CONRAD  IN  QUEST  OF  HIS  YOUTH.    With 
an  Introduction  by  Sib  J.  M.  Bakbis. 

WHEN  LOVE  FLIES  OUT  O'  THE  WINDOW. 

With  an  Introduction  by  Sib  William  Robebtv 

BON   NiCOLL. 

THE  QUAINT  COMPANIONS.    With  an  Intro- 
duction by  H.  G.  Wells. 

THE  POSITION  OF  PEGGY  HARPER.    With 

an  Introduction  by  Sib  Abthub  Pineeo. 
THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN  and 

other  Stories.     With  an  Introduction  by  W.  J. 

Locke. 
THE  WORLDLINGS.    With  an  Introduction  by 

Neil  Muneo. 
THE  ACTOR-MANAGER.   With  an  Introduction 

by  W.  D.  HowELLS. 
CYNTHIA.    With  an  Introduction  by  Maubicb 

Hewlett. 
ONE  MAN'S  VIEW.    With  an  Introduction  by 

Gbanvillb  Baekee. 

THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  GOOD.    With  an  Intro- 
duction  by  J.  K.  Peothbbo. 

A  CHAIR  ON  THE  BOULEVARD.     With  an 
Introduction  by  A.  Neil  Lyons. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  LYNCH.    With  an  Introduc- 
tion by  G.  K.  Chestebton. 

WHILE  PARIS  LAUGHED:  Being  Pbanks  and 

Passions  of  the  Poet  Tbicotbin. 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


THE  MAN  WHO 
UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

¥ 

By    LEONARD    MERRICK 

¥ 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
W.  J.   LOCKE 


NEW  YORK 
E  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPTEIGHT,  1911, 

BY  MITCHELL  KENNERLET 


COPTHIGHT,  1919, 

BY   E.  P.  BUTTON   &    COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


The  First  American  Definitive  Edition,  with  Introduction  by 

W.  J.  Locke,  limited  to  1550  copies 

(of  which  only  1500  were  for  sale) 

Published  September,  1919 

Second  American  Edition,  October,  1919 

Third  "  "        October,  1919 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PR 


CONTENTS 


I  PA  OB 

THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD   WOMEN 1 

II 
A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL 18 

III 
THE  WOMAN  WHO  WISHED  TO  DIE 35 

IV 
FRANKENSTEIN  II 50 

V 
THE  TALE  THAT  WOULDN't  DO 68 

VI 
THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY 81 

VII 
THE   CHILD   IN  THE   GARDEN 160 

VIII 
A  LETTER  TO  THE   DUCHESS ^        .        180 

IX 
THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE 200 

X 

WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD 224 

V 


\i  CONTEXTS 

DEAD   VIOLETS ^9 

xn 

THE  FATOnUTE  PLOT 259 

xm 

TIME,   THE  HUMORIST 277 

THE   BACK   OF   BOHEMIA 293 

XV 
THE  LADT  OF  LTOXs' 313 

XVI 
THE  THTRD  M 326 

xvn 

THE  bishop's   COMEDY 344 

XVIII 
A  REVERIE 364 

XTX 
THE  RECONCILIATION 368 

XX 
THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST   ........       383 


INTRODUCTION^ 

One  of  our  most  delightful  novelists  has  re- 
cently written  a  preface  to  a  collection  of  his 
short  stories  in  which  he  apologises  for  disinter- 
ring them  from  magazines  and  resuscitating  them 
in  book  form.  I  think  he  ought  not  to  have  done 
it.  If  a  preface  were  needed,  it  should  have  been 
written  rather  as  an  appeal,  than  as  a  warning. 
It  should  have  been  in  the  nature  of  a  bugle- 
blast.  It  should  have  said,  in  effect :  "Here,  my 
faithful  and  gentle  readers  who,  owing  to  the 
limitations  of  time  and  space  and  the  worries  of 
the  world,  have  missed  much  of  my  best  and  most 
cherished  work — here  is  an  opportunity  of  an 
unexpected  feast."  I  confess  that  such  an  ap- 
peal would  not  have  been  modest — and  the  au- 
thor in  question  is  the  most  modest  of  our  con- 
fraternity— but  the  assertion  would  have  been 
true.  Xow,  with  the  agreeable  task  before  me  of 
writing  a  preface  to  another  man's  collection,  I 
am  not  bound  by  any  such  sense  of  modesty,  and 
I  should  like  to  make  clear  once  more  certain 
issues  which  my  friend  above  referred  to  has,  to 
a  certain  extent,  confused. 

ivii 


rsTsoDucnox 

In  -he  ±r5t  place,  it  must  be  understood  that 
the  noTci  and  the  short  stonr  are  two  oitirelv 
difT^  ::  artistic  €3^resaoiis.  as  different  as  the 
grr_:  _-T  lilting  and  the  miniatare.  And  as 
rarely  as  th r  :..:  mpHshed landscape-painter  and 
Tj  r  :. ; ;   : :  .  :  Tii^tnrist  are  incarnate  in  one 

_  .  .7  _zir  :  /ddnal  so  raieh-  sffe  the  ac- 
::^tL;L ri  n  TrL,:  :.  1  :  e  acoGOipli^^ed  slicri 
story  -writer  thus  L.  ;i::-_:e.  The  nost  fervait 
1-  __reTs  of  31r.  H  _  ^7  : 1  HipTmg,  among  whom 
T  :^^  T :  _  5  to  crmr.  :_iyself ,  wiH  not  flf^im  far 
—^  z  r.f  -.1 :  izj-  :  ;  >r?=ii:g'  -he  incalcnlahle  and 
inirdi::  -t  Ttt-  r.:.  ::_:_,  :_e  magical  genius 
oi  tzLzzt-z.z.  ~L  :  -  T  :  :r  i  in  all  his  work 
— evQi  in  7"  r  .:  -         '-.1  Leggar^  the  per- 

fecrti^n  of  si--t„  t  .:  ::^_  i_r  flawless  technique  of 
P:<2f  1  T^Tf ^ r  ' -^'"  "^L-fe'g Handicap. 
In  the  sizie  t^t^t  Tre  ttv^^  :  :  i_;^  re  Guy  de 
M:  t"s  grt itnrss  by  L'r^  Vic  or  3/wrf 

O"  1  ^Li^L  :he  late  Henry  Harl^nd  is 

"'  ^  :  ^r_  ^^Ti  by  that  study  in  sunshiiie,  Tiie  Car- 
~  -      r^  his  : :   -  i  :~ers  turn  to  the  in- 
11-.:/  '.'  '  -'z'.z-.    :.  G'-ey  B'jxei  211^  Come- 

C  inTers-eiT.  :_ir  of  the  greatest  novelists  have 
but  litrlr  Tiiue  as  storr  writers.     The  so- 

::.'    '         ::  ::  Diikeiis — T'^e  Crichet  on 

z\c  Hi--      Z'  :  C        i.  A  Cfiri^mag  Carol — 


IXTRODUCTION  ix 

are  between  thirty  and  forty  thousand  words  in 
length.  Among  Thackeray's  many  sketches  may 
be  found  a  few  which  we  understand  as  short  sto- 
ries, but  theT  do  not  rank  with  Hev.ru  E»mond 
and  TJie  Xezccomeg. 

The  essential  novelist  accustomed  to  his  broad 
canvas,  to  the  multiplicity  of  human  destinies 
with  which  he  is  concerned  and  their  inter-rela- 
ticHi,  to  his  varied  backgrounds,  to  the  free  space 
which  his  art  allows  him  both  for  minute  analysis 
of  character  and  for  his  own  philosophical  re- 
flections on  life,  is  apt  to  find  himself  absurdly 
cramped  within  the  narrow  confines  of  the  short 
story.  His  short  stories  have  a  way  of  becoming 
ccmdensed  novels.  Thev  contain  more  stuff  than 
they  ought  to  hold,  at  a  sacrifice  of  balance,  di- 
rectness and  clearness  of  exposition,  Xow,  with- 
out dogmatising  in  the  conventional  fashion,  or 
indeed  in  any  fashion,  over  what  a  short  story 
ought  or  ought  not  to  be,  or  asserting  definite 
laws  of  technique,  I  think  it  is  obvious  that  if  a 
story  told  in  ten  thousand  words  would  have  been 
a  better,  clearer,  more  fuHy  developed  story  told 
in  a  hundred  thousand,  it  is  not  a  perfectly  told 
story.  For.  though  there  is  a  modem  tendency 
to  revolt  against  an  older  school  of  criticism 
which  set  technique  over  subject,  and  to  scoff  at 
form,  yet  we  cannot  get  away  from  the  fact  that 


X  INTRODUCTION 

the  told  story,  whether  long  or  short,  is  a  work 
of  art,  and  is  subject  to  the  eternal  canons  where- 
by every  art  is  governed.  No  matter  what  a  man 
has  to  say,  if  he  does  not  strive  to  express  it  per- 
fectly, he  is  offending.  The  "condensed  novel," 
being  imperfect,  is  an  offence. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  essential  short  story 
writer  engaged  upon  a  novel,  is  apt  to  be  dis- 
mayed by  the  vastness  of  the  canvas  he  has  to 
cover.  His  habit  of  mind — minute,  delicate  and 
swift — wars  against  a  conception  of  the  archi- 
tectonics of  a  novel.  In  consequence,  his  novel 
may  appear  thin,  episodical  and  laboured,  with 
scenes  spun  out  beyond  their  value,  thus  missing 
their  dramatic  effect  and  spoiling  the  balance  of 
the  work.  If,  therefore,  a  story  of  a  hundred 
thousand  words  could  have  been  told  more  effec- 
tively in  ten  thousand,  it  is,  like  the  "condensed 
novel,"  not  a  perfectly  told  story. 

Briefly,  the  tendency  of  the  essential  novelist 
in  writing  a  short  story  is  to  make  literary  con- 
densed milk,  while  that  of  the  essential  short 
story  wi'iter  working  in  the  medium  of  a  novel 
is  to  make  milk  and  water. 

Occasionally,  of  course,  among  the  great  writ- 
ers of  fiction  we  meet  with  the  combination  of  the 
two  faculties.  Ealzac  the  short  story  writer  is  as 
great  as  Balzac  the  novelist.     The  Contes  Dro- 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

latiques  alone  would  have  brought  him  fame. 
Stevenson  was  master  of  both  crafts.  Who  shall 
say  whether  The  Sire  de  MaUtroifs  Door  or 
The  Ebb  Tide  is  the  more  perfect  work  of  art? 
Now  among  contemporary  writers,  Mr.  Leon- 
ard ]\Ierrick  is  eminently  one  who,  like  Balzac 
and  Stevenson,  is  gifted  with  the  double  faculty. 
His  reputation  as  a  novelist  rests  on  a  sure  foun- 
dation, and  his  novels  in  this  edition  of  his  works 
will  be  dealt  with  by  other  hands.  But,  owing 
to  the  fact  of  the  novel  being  in  the  commercial 
world  "more  important"  than  the  short  story,  his 
claim  to  the  distinct  reputation  of  a  short  story 
writer  has  more  or  less  been  overlooked.  Again, 
it  is  popularly  supposed  that  a  writer  of  fiction 
regards  the  short  story  as  either  a  relaxation 
from  more  arduous  toil  or  as  a  means  of  adding 
&  few  extra  pounds  to  his  income.  In  his  acqui- 
escence in  this  disastrous  superstition  lies  my 
quarrel  with  my  distinguished  preface-writing 
friend.  Now,  although  I  do  not  say  that  we  are 
all  such  high-minded  folk  that  none  of  us  has 
ever  stooped  to  "i^ot-boiling,"  yet  I  assert  that 
every  conscientious  artist  approaches  a  short 
story  with  the  same  earnestness  as  he  does  a  nov- 
el. Further,  that  in  proportion  to  its  length  he 
devotes  to  it  more  concentration,  more  loving 
and  scrupulous  care.    There  are  days  during  the 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

writing  of  a  novel  when  that  combination  of 
fierce  desire  to  work  and  sense  of  power  which 
one  loosely  talks  about  as  "inspiration,"  is  at  ebb, 
and  others  when  it  is  at  flow.  Homer  nods  some- 
times. No  man  can  bestow  equal  essence  of  him- 
self on  every  page  of  a  long  novel.  But  a  short 
story  is  generally  written  at  full-tide.  By  its  na- 
ture it  can  be  finished  before  the  impulse  is  over. 
There  is  time  to  weigh  every  word  of  it,  attend 
to  the  rhythm  of  every  sentence,  adjust  the  del- 
icate balance  of  the  various  parts,  and  there  is 
the  thrilling  consciousness  of  unity.  Instead  of 
the  climax  being  months  off,  there  it  is  at  hand  to 
be  reached  in  a  few  glad  hours.  So,  far  from 
being  an  unconsidered  trifle,  the  short  story  is  a 
work  of  intense  consideration,  and  as  far  as  our 
poor  words  can  matter,  of  profound  importance. 
It  may  be  said  that  anything  in  the  nature  of 
a  plea  for  the  short  story  as  a  work  of  art  is  hope- 
lessly belated — I  am  quite  aware  that  the  wise 
and  gifted  made  it  long  ago,  and  I  remember 
the  preaching  of  the  apostles  of  the  early  'nine- 
ties— but  its  repetition  is  none  the  less  useful. 
Every  item  in  the  welter  of  short  stories  with 
which  the  innumerable  magazines  both  here  and 
in  America  flood  the  reading  public  is  not  a  mas- 
terpiece. Every  item  is  not  perfect  work.  Many 
are  exceedingly  bad — bad  in  conception,   style 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

and  form.  There  is  always  the  danger  of  the 
good  being  hidden,  of  bad  and  good  being  con- 
fused together  in  the  public  mind,  and  of  the 
term  "magazine  story"  becoming  one  of  con- 
temptuous and  unthinking  reproach,  as  was  the 
term  "yellow-back"  a  generation  ago.  Accord- 
ingly it  is  well  that  now  and  again  a  word  should 
be  said  in  deprecation  of  an  attitude  which  a  tired 
and  fiction-worn  world  is  liable  to  adopt;  and  it 
is  well  to  remind  it  that  in  the  aforesaid  welter 
there  are  many  beautiful  works  of  art,  and  to 
beseech  it  to  exercise  discrimination. 

The  writer  of  an  introduction  to  the  work  of  a 
literary  comrade  labours  under  certain  difficul- 
ties.  He  ought  not  to  usurp  the  functions  of  the 
critic  into  whose  hands  the  volume,  when  pub- 
lished, will  come,  and  he  is  anxious,  for  the  sake 
of  prudence,  not  to  use  the  language  of  hyper- 
bole, though  he  has  it  in  his  heart  to  do  so.  But, 
at  least,  I  can  claim  for  these  short  stories  of  Mr. 
Leonard  IMerrick,  that  each,  by  its  perfection  of 
form  and  the  sincerity  of  its  making,  takes  rank 
as  a  work  of  art.  In  none  is  there  a  word  too 
little  or  a  word  too  much.  Everywhere  one  sees 
evidence  of  the  pain  through  which  the  soul  of 
the  artist  has  passed  on  its  way  to  the  joy  of  cre- 
ation. Everywhere  is  seen  the  firmness  of  out- 
line which  only  comes  by  conviction  of  truth,  and 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

the  light  and  shade  which  is  only  attained  by  a 
man  who  loves  his  craft. 

The  field  covered  by  Mr.  Merrick  in  this  col- 
lection is  one  which  he  has  made  peculiarly  his 
own.  Mainly  it  is  the  world  of  the  artist,  the 
poet,  the  journalist,  in  the  years  when  hopes  are 
high  and  funds  are  low,  when  the  soul  is  full  and 
the  stomach  empty.  It  is  neither  the  Bohemia 
of  yesterday's  romance  nor  the  Bohemia  of 
drunken  degradation,  but  the  sober,  clean-living, 
struggling  Bohemia  of  to-day.  It  is  a  sedate, 
hard-up  world  of  omnibuses,  lodgings,  second- 
rate  tea  shops  and  restaurants.  Yet  he  does  not 
belong  to  the  static  school  who  set  do^\Ti  the  mere 
greyness  of  their  conditions.  He  is  a  poet,  mak- 
ing— 

"The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 
Among  the  chops   and  steaks," 

as  in  The  Lady  of  Lyons\  To  Rosie  McLeod, 
living  "up  ninety-eight  stairs  of  a  dingy  house  in 
a  dilapidated  court"  in  Montparnasse,  comes  the 
prince  in  the  Fairy  Tale.  There  is  true  poetry 
in  The  Laurels  and  the  Lady  with  its  amazing 
end.  And  yet  his  method  is  simple,  direct, 
romantic.  He  writes  of  things  as  they  really  are, 
but  his  vision  pierces  to  their  significance.  He 
can  be  relentless  in  his  presentation  of  a  poig- 
nant situation,  as  in  A  Very  Good  Thing  for  the 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

Girl,  a  realist  of  the  realists  if  you  like ;  but  here, 
as  everywhere  in  his  work,  are  profound  pity, 
tenderness  and  sympathetic  knowledge  of  the  hu- 
man heart.  He  writes  not  only  of  things  seen, 
but  of  things  felt.  Whatever  qualities  his  work 
may  have,  it  has  the  great  quahty  essential  to  aU 
artistic  endeavour — sincerity. 

WiLLiAi^i  J.  Locke. 


THE  MAN  WHO 
UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD 
WOMEN 

"Our  bitterest  remorse  is  not  for  our  sins,  but  for  our 
stupidities." — Excerpt  from  Wendover's  new  novel. 

Nothing  had  delighted  Wendover  so  much 
when  his  first  book  appeared  as  some  reviewer's 
reference  to  "the  author's  knowledge  of  women." 
He  was  then  six  or  seven  and  twenty,  and  the 
compliment  uplifted  him  the  more  because  he  had 
long  regretted  violently  that  he  knew  even  less 
of  women  than  do  most  young  men.  The  thought 
of  women  fascinated  him.  He  yearned  to  capti- 
vate them,  to  pass  lightly  from  one  love-affair 
to  another,  to  have  the  right  to  call  himself 
"blase."  Alas!  a  few  dances  in  the  small  provin- 
cial town  that  he  had  left  when  he  was  eighteen 
comprised  nearly  all  his  sentimental  experiences; 
during  his  years  of  struggle  in  London  he  had 
been  so  abominably  hard  up  that  lodging-house 
keepers  and  barmaids  were  almost  the  only  wom- 
en he  addressed,  and  as  his  beverage  was  "a  glass 
of  bitter,"  the  barmaids  had  been  strictly  com- 
mercial. 

To  be  told  that  he  understood  women  enrap- 

1 


2     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

tured  him.  "Instinct!"  he  said  to  himself.  "Xow 
and  then  a  man  is  born  who  knows  the  feminine 
mind  intuitively."  And  in  his  next  book  there 
was  an  abundance  of  his  fanciful  psychology. 
Denied  companionship  with  women,  he  revelled 
in  writing  about  them,  and  drew  from  the  pages 
in  which  he  posed  as  their  delineator  something 
of  the  exultation  that  he  would  have  derived  from 
being  their  lover.  There  were  even  pages  after 
which  he  felt  sated  with  conquest.  At  these  times 
nothing  accorded  with  his  mood  so  well  as  to  pa- 
rade the  Park  and  pretend  to  himself  that  the 
sight  of  the  most  attractive  of  the  women  bored 
him. 

But  as  loneliness  really  cried  within  him  pa- 
thetically, he  had  an  adventure,  culminating  in 
marriage,  with  a  shop  assistant  who  glanced  at 
him  one  evening  in  Oxford  Street.  After  mar'^ 
riage  they  found  as  little  of  an  agreeable  nature 
to  say  to  each  other  as  might  have  been  expected, 
so  a  couple  of  j^ears  later  they  separated,  and  the 
ex-shop  hand  went  to  reside  with  a  widowed  sis- 
ter, who  "made  up  ladies'  own  materials"  at 
Crouch  End. 

Gradually  he  came  to  be  accepted  at  his  own 
valuation,  to  be  pronounced  one  of  the  few  gifted 
men  from  whom  the  feminine  soul  held  no  se- 
crets.   Then  when  he  was  close  on  forty,  a  novel 


THE  IVIAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN     3 

that  he  produced  hit  the  popular  taste,  and  he 
began  to  make  a  very  respectable  income. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  had  opportunities 
for  meeting  the  class  of  women  that  he  had  been 
writing  about,  and  he  found,  to  his  consternation, 
that  they  failed  to  recognise  him  as  an  affinity 
after  all.  They  were  very  amiable,  but,  like  the 
farmer  with  the  claret,  he  "never  got  any  forrad- 
er." He  perceived  that  his  profundities  were 
thought  tedious,  and  that  his  attentions  were 
thought  raw.  It  was  a  sickening  admission  for 
an  authority  on  women  to  have  to  make,  but 
when  he  tried  to  flirt  he  felt  shy. 

At  last  he  decided  that  all  the  women  whom  he 
knew  were  too  frivolous  to  appeal  to  a  man  of 
intellect,   and  that  theii'  company  wearied  him 

unutterablv. 

But,  though  he  had  reached  middle-age,  he 
had  never  as  yet  been  really  in  love. 

In  the  autumn  of  his  forty-second  year — few 
people  judged  him  to  be  so  much — he  removed 
to  Paris.  Some  months  afterwards,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  a  novel  that  he  had  begun,  he  deserted  his 
hotel  in  the  rue  d'Antin  for  a  pension  de  famille 
on  the  left  bank.  This  establishment,  which  was 
supported  chiefly  by  English  and  American  girls 
studying  art,  supplied  the  "colour"  that  he  need- 


4     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

ed  for  his  earlier  chapters;  and  it  was  here  that 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Searle. 

Miss  Searle  was  about  six-and-twenty,  bohe- 
mian  and  ambitious  beyond  her  talents.  Such 
pensions  de  famille  abound  in  girls  who  are  more 
or  less  bohemian,  and  ambitious  beyond  their  tal- 
ents, but  Rhoda  Searle  was  noteworthy — her 
face  stirred  the  imagination,  she  had  realised  that 
she  would  never  paint,  and  the  free-and-easy  in- 
tercourse of  the  Latin  quarter  had  wholly  un- 
fitted her  for  the  prim  provincialism  to  which  she 
must  return  in  England. 

"My  father  was  a  parson,"  she  told  Wendover 
once,  as  they  smoked  cigarettes  together  after 
dinner.  "I  had  hard  work  to  convince  him  that 
English  art  schools  weren't  the  apex,  but  he  gave 
in  at  last  and  let  me  come  here.  It  was  Para- 
dise! My  home  was  in  Beckenhampton.  Do 
you  know  it?  It's  one  of  the  dreariest  holes  in 
the  kingdom.  I  used  to  go  over  to  stay  with  him 
twice  a  year.  I  was  very  fond  of  my  father,  but 
I  can't  tell  you  how  terrible  those  visits  became 
to  me,  how  I  had  to  suppress  myself,  and  how 
the  drab  women  and  stupid  young  men  used  to 
stare  at  me — as  if  I  were  a  strange  animal,  or 
something  improper;  in  places  like  Beckenhamp- 
ton they  say  'Paris'  in  the  same  kind  of  voice  that 
they  say  'Hell.'    I  suppose  I'm  a  bohemian  by 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN    5 

instinct,  for  even  now  that  I  know  I  should  never 
make  an  artist,  my  horror  isn't  so  much  the  loss 
of  my  hopes  as  the  loss  of  my  freedom,  my — my 
identity;  I  am  never  to  be  natural  any  more. 
After  I  leave  here  I  am  to  go  on  suppressing 
myself  till  the  day  I  die!  Sometimes  I  shall  be 
able  to  shut  myself  up  and  howl — that's  all  I've 
got  to  look  forward  to." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Wendo- 
ver,  looking  sympathetic,  and  thinking  pleasur- 
ably  that  he  had  found  a  good  character  to  put 
into  his  book. 

"I  am  going  back,"  she  said,  "a  shining  ex- 
ample of  the  folly  of  being  discontented  with 
district -visiting  and  Church  bazaars!  I  go  back 
a  failure  for  Beckenhampton  to  moralise  over. 
My  old  schoolmistress  has  asked  me  to  stay  with 
her  while  I  'look  round' — you  see,  I've  spent  all 
my  money,  and  I  must  find  a  situation.  If  the 
Beckenhampton  parents  don't  regard  me  as  too 
immoral,  it  is  just  possible  she  may  employ  me 
in  the  school  to  'teach  drawing' — unless  I  try  to 
teach  it.  Then  I  suppose  I  shall  be  called  a  'rev- 
olutionary' and  be  dismissed."  She  contemplated 
the  shabby  little  salon  thoughtfully,  and  lit 
another  cigarette.  "From  the  Boul'  Mich'  to  a 
boarding  school!     It'll  be  a  change.     I  wonder 


6    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

if  it  will  be  safe  to  smoke  there  if  I  keep  my  bed- 
room window  open  wide?" 

Yes,  it  would  be  as  great  a  change  as  was  con- 
ceivable, and  Khoda  Searle  was  the  most  inter- 
esting figure  in  the  house  to  Wendover.  She 
was  going  to  England  in  a  month's  time — there 
was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  go  at  once,  save 
that  she  had  enough  money  to  postpone  the  evil 
day — and  during  this  valedictory  month,  she  and 
he  talked  of  their  "friendship."  In  the  tortuous 
streets  off  the  boulevard,  she  introduced  him  to 
humble  restaurants,  where  the  dinners  were 
sometimes  amazingly  good  at  ridiculously  low 
prices.  Together  they  made  little  excursions, 
and  pretended  to  scribble  or  sketch  in  the  woods 
— looking  at  each  other,  however,  most  of  the 
time ;  and  then  at  evening  there  was  an  inn  to  be 
sought,  and  the  moon  would  rise  sooner  than  the 
"friends";  and  in  the  moonlight,  when  they  re- 
turned to  Paris  and  the  pension  de  famille,  senti- 
ment would  constrain  their  tones. 

It  was  all  quite  innocent,  but  to  the  last  degree 
unwise.  The  ex-shop  assistant  still  throve  decor- 
ously at  Crouch  End  on  his  allowance,  and  Wen- 
dover should  have  seen  that  he  was  acting  unfair- 
ly towards  Miss  Searle.  To  do  him  justice,  he 
didn't  see  it — he  had  confided  the  story  of  his 
marriage  to  her,  and  it  did  not  enter  into  his 


THE  ^lAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN    T 

thoughts  that  she  might  care  for  him  seriously 
notwithstanding;  his  experiences  had  given  him 
no  cause  to  esteem  himself  dangerous,  and  the 
lover  who  has  never  received  favours  is,  in  prac- 
tice, always  modest,  though  in  aspirations  he  may 
be  Juanesque.  The  suitor  of  quick  perceptions 
has  been  made  by  other  women,  as  everybody  but 
the  least  sophisticated  of  debutantes  knows. 

But  if  he  did  not  dream  that  he  might  trouble 
the  peace  of  JNIiss  Searle,  he  was  perpetually  con- 
scious that  ]Miss  Searle  had  disturbed  his  own.  A 
month's  daily  companionhsip  with  a  tempera- 
ment, plus  a  fascinating  face,  would  be  danger- 
ous to  any  man — to  Wendover  it  was  fatal.  His 
thoughts  turned  no  longer  to  liaisons  with  duch- 
esses; his  work,  itself,  was  secondary  to  Rhoda 
Searle.  Silly  fellow  as  he  appears,  the  emotions 
wakened  in  him  were  no  less  genuine  than  if  he 
had  combined  all  the  noble  qualities  with  which 
he  invested  the  heroes  of  his  books.  Besides, 
most  people  would  appear  silly  in  a  description 
which  dealt  only  with  their  weaknesses.  Wendo- 
ver loved,  and  he  cursed  the  tie  that  prevented 
his  asking  the  girl  to  be  his  wife.  How  happy 
he  might  have  been ! 

He  had  feared  that  the  last  evening  would  be  a 
melancholy  one.  But  it  was  gay — the  greater 
part  of  it  was  gay,  at  any  rate.    As  soon  as  the 


8     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

door  slammed  behind  them  he  saw  that  she  had 
resolved  to  keep  the  thought  of  the  morrow's 
journey  in  the  background,  to  help  him  to  turn 
the  farewell  into  a  fete.  Her  laughing  caution 
was  unnecessary;  her  voice,  her  eyes  had  given 
him  the  cue — her  journey  was  to  be  undertaken 
in  the  distant  future,  life  was  dehcious,  and  they 
were  out  to  enjoy  themselves!  He  had  proposed 
dining  at  Armenonville — it  wasn't  the  Paris  that 
she  had  knovtn,  but  champagne  and  fashion 
seemed  the  right  thing  to-night;  and  no  fiacre 
had  ever  before  sped  so  blithely,  never  had  the 
Bois  been  so  enchanting,  and  never  had  another 
girl  been  such  joyous  company.  After  dinner, 
the  Ambassadeurs !  The  programme?  They 
didn't  listen  to  much  of  it,  they  were  chattering 
<ill  the  time.  It  was  only  when  the  lamps  died 
out  that  he  heard  a  sigh;  it  was  only  when  the 
lamps  died  out  that  the  morning  train,  and  the 
parting,  and  the  blank  beginning  of  the  after- 
wards, seemed  to  him  so  horriblv  near. 

The  little  salon  was  half  dark  when  they 
reached  the  pension  de  famille,  everybody  else 
had  gone  to  bed.  Wendover  turned  up  the  light, 
and,  though  she  said  it  was  too  late  to  sit  down, 
they  stood  talking  by  the  mantelpiece.  "You've 
given  me  a  heavenly  memory  for  the  end,"  she 


THE  IVIAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN    9 

told  him;  "thanks  so  much!  I  shall  be  thinking 
of  it  at  this  time  to-morrow." 

"So  shall  I,"  said  Wendover. 

She  took  off  her  hat,  and  pulled  her  hair  right 
before  the  mirror.    "Shall  you?" 

"Will  you  write  to  me  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you'd  like  me  to." 

"I'd  more  than  like  it — I  shall  look  forward  to 
your  letters  tremendously." 

"There  won't  be  much  to  say  in  them." 

"They'll  be  from  you.  ...  I  wish  you  weren't 
going." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  him.  "Why?"  she  asked. 

Wendover  kept  silent  a  moment — it  was  the 
hardest  thing  that  he  had  done  in  his  hfe.  If  he 
answered,  "Because  I  love  you,"  he  felt  that  he 
would  be  a  cad.  Besides,  she  must  know  very 
well  that  he  loved  her — what  good  would  it  do 
to  tell  her  so? — doubtless  she  had  repented  her 
question  in  the  moment  of  putting  it!  Yes,  he 
would  be  a  cad  to  confess  to  her — she  would  think 
less  of  him  for  it.  lie  would  choose  the  beau 
role — and  she  would  alwavs  remember  that,  when 
he  might  have  spoilt  their  last  scene  together  and 
pained  her,  he  had  been  strong,  heroic! 

"We've  been  such  pals,"  he  said.  That  she 
mightn't  underrate  the  heroism,  he  turned  aside. 


10      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

as  the  noble  fellow  in  books  does  when  he  is 
struggling. 

After  a  pause,  she  murmured  blankly,  "It's 
time  I  said  'good-night.'  " 

She  went  to  him  and  gave  him  her  hand.  Her 
clasp  was  fervent — it  was  encouraging  to  feel 
that  she  was  grateful!  Her  gaze  held  him,  and 
her  eyes  were  wide,  dark,  troubled;  he  was  sure 
that  she  was  sorry  for  him. 

"Good-night,  my  dear,"  said  Wendover,  still 
as  brave  as  the  fellow  in  the  books.  And  when 
he  had  watched  her  go  up  the  stairs — when  she 
had  turned  again,  with  that  look  in  her  eyes,  and 
turned  away — ^he  went  back  to  the  salon  and  was 
wretched  beyond  words  to  tell,  for  a  fool  may 
love  as  deeply  as  the  wisest. 

This  was  really  their  "good-bye" — in  the 
morning  the  claims  on  her  were  many,  and  he 
was  not  the  only  one  who  drove  to  the  station 
with  her. 

When  she  had  been  gone  between  two  and 
three  weeks,  he  received  the  promised  letter.  It 
told  him  little  but  that  she  was  "the  new  drawing 
mistress";  of  her  thoughts,  her  attitude  towards 
her  new  life,  it  said  nothing.  He  replied  prompt- 
ly, questioning  her;  but  she  wrote  no  more,  and 
not  the  least  of  his  regrets  was  the  thought  that 
she  had  dismissed  him  from  her  mind  so  easily. 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN      11 

He  did  not  remain  much  longer  in  the  board- 
ing-house, its  associations  hurt  him  too  much.  A 
sandy-haired  girl,  with  no  eyelashes  and  red  ears, 
occupied  the  seat  that  had  been  Rhoda's  at  the 
table,  and  the  newcomer's  unconcerned  posses- 
sion of  it  stabbed  him  at  every  meal.  Having 
taken  precautions  against  letters  for  him  going 
astray,  he  returned  to  the  hotel,  and  there  month 
after  month  he  plodded  at  his  book,  and  tried  to 
forget. 

Nearly  a  year  had  gone  by  when  he  stood  again 
on  the  deck  of  a  Channel  boat.  He  had  not 
spared  himself,  and  the  novel  was  finished,  and 
he  was  satisfied  with  it;  but  he  was  as  much  in 
love  as  he  had  been  on  the  morning  when  he 
watched  a  train  steam  from  the  gare  St.  Lazare. 
As  he  paced  the  deck  he  thought  of  Rhoda  all 
the  time ;  it  excited  him  that  he  was  going  to  Eng- 
land, he  might  chance  to  see  her — he  might  even 
run  down  to  Beckenhampton  for  a  day  or  two? 
It  would  make  the  situation  harder  to  bear  after- 
wards, of  course,  but 

He  looked  up  "Beckenhampton"  in  the  Rail- 
way Guide  often  during  the  next  few  days.  The 
distance  between  them  was  marvellously  short — 
the  knowledge  that  an  hour  and  a  half's  journey 
could  yield  her  face  to  him  again  had  a  touch  of 
the  magical  in  it.     An  hour  and  a  half  from 


12      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Hades  to  Olympus!  The  longing  fevered  him. 
He  threw  some  things  into  a  bag  pellmell  one 
morning,  and  caught  the  10.15. 

"The  George  Hotel!" — and  from  the  hotel  he 
directed  the  driver  to  the  school.  The  little  town 
was  grey  and  drear;  he  pitied  her  acutely  as  he 
gazed  about  him  from  the  fly.  He  understood 
how  her  spirit  must  beat  itself  against  the  bars, 
he  realised  what  her  arrival  must  have  meant  to 
her ;  behind  one  of  the  windows  of  this  prison  she 
had  sat  looking  back  upon  her  yesterday !  How 
the  year  must  have  changed  her !  he  wondered  if 
she  still  smiled.  The  fly  jolted  into  the  narrow 
High  Street — and  he  saw  her  coming  out  of  the 
post-office. 

Yes,  she  still  smiled — the  smile  that  irradiated 
her  face  and  made  him  forget  everything  else! 
Thej^  stood  outside  the  post-office  together,  clasp- 
ing hands  once  more. 

"You!  what  are  you  doing  here?"  she  cried. 
"I  was  just  going  to  see  you,  I've  just  come 
from  the  station.    How  are  you  ?    You  look  very 
well." 

"I'm  all  right.    Are  j^ou  back  for  good?" 

"Yes,  I  left  Paris  a  few  days  ago." 

"Did  you  stay  on  at  the  pension?" 

"Oh  no,  I  gave  that  up  soon  after  you  went." 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN      13 

"You've  finished  your  book,  eh?" 

*'How  did  you  know?" 

"I  saw  something  about  it  in  a  paper.  And 
how's  Paris?    I  dream  I'm  back  sometimes." 

"Paris  is  just  the  same." 

"I  suppose  you  never  saw  anj^thing  of  the  oth- 
ers afterwards — Kitty  Owen,  or  the  INIacAlhster 
girl?" 

"No,  I  never  came  across  any  of  them — I  was 
working  very  hard.  Well?  Tell  me  things; 
what's  the  news?  You're  still  at  the  school 
then?" 

"No." 

"No?    Aren't  you?    I  was  on  my  way  there. 
What  are  you  doing?" 
1  m  married. 

The  blood  sank  from  his  cheeks.    "Married?" 

"I've  been  married  four  months." 

A  woman  came  between  them  to  post  a  letter, 
and  he  was  grateful  for  the  interruption.  "Let 
me  congratulate  you." 

"Thanks.  3Iy  husband's  a  solicitor  here,  .  .  . 
You'll  come  and  see  us?" 

"I'm  afraid  ...  I  should  have  been  delighted, 
of  course,  but  I  have  to  be  in  town  again  this 
evening." 

"We'd    better    move — we're    in    everybody's 


14*      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

way,"  she  said.  "Will  you  walk  on  with  me? 
When  does  the  book  come  out?" 

"In  a  few  weeks'  time — I'll  send  a  copy  to 
you." 

"Really?  It  would  be  very  good  of  you.  I've 
often  looked  at  the  book  columns  to  see  if  it  was 
published." 

"Have  you?  I  was  afraid  you'd  forgotten  all 
about  me.  .  .  .  You — you  might  have  written 
again ;  you  promised  to  write !" 

"I  know." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"What  was  the  good?" 

"It  would  have  made  me  happier.  I  missed 
you  frightfully.  I — I  think  that  was  why  I  left 
the  pension,  I  couldn't  stand  it  when  you'd  gone. 
.  .  .  Well,  are  ^/o?/' happy?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so." 

"I'm  glad." 

"So  you  won't  come  and  see  us?" 

"It's  impossible,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  .  .  .  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  didn't  mean  to  see  you  again 
at  all." 

"That's  a  pretty  compliment!" 

"Ah,  you  know  what  I  mean — it  seemed  bet- 
ter that  I  shouldn't.  But  ...  I  think  I'm  glad 
I  did;  I  don't  know!    I've  wondered  sometimes 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN      15 

whether  you  understood.  .  .  .  We  shan't  meet 
any  more,  and  I  should  Uke  you  to  know " 

"Don't,"  she  exclaimed  thickly.  "For  heav- 
en's sake!" 

"I  must,"  said  Wendover — "I  loved  you 
dearly!" 

They  had  walked  some  yards  before  she  an- 
swered; her  voice  was  a  whisper;  "What's  the 
use  of  saying  that  to  me  now?"  The  bitterness 
of  suffering  was  in  the  words — they  flared  the 
truth  on  him,  the  annihilating  truth. 

"My  God!"  he  faltered,  "would  it  have  been 
any  use  then?'' 

Her  face  was  colourless.    She  didn't  speak. 

"Rhoda,  did  you  care?  If — if  I  had  asked 
you  to  stay  with  me,  would  you  have  stayed?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Tell  me." 

"Yes,  then,  I  would  have  stayed!"  she  said 
hoarsely.  "Whom  should  I  have  hurt?  I  was 
alone,  I  had  no  one  to  study  but  myself.  I  want- 
ed you  to  ask  me.  Stayed?  I'd  have  thanked 
God  if  you  had  spoken!  You  were  bhnd,  you 
wouldn't  see.  And  now,  when  it's  too  late,  you 
come  and  say  it!" 

"I  wanted  to  be  straight  to  you,"  he  groaned. 
"I  sacrificed  my  happiness  to  be  straight  to  you 
■ — it  was  damnably  hard  to  do." 


16     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"I  know.  But  I  didn't  want  sacrifices — I 
wanted  love.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  no  good  our  talking 
about  it!"  She  stopped,  and  sighed.  "We  shall 
both  get  over  it,  I  suppose." 

''Is  it  too  late?"  pleaded  Wendover  brokenly. 

"Quite.  Things  aren't  the  same;  last  year  I 
was  free  to  do  as  I  Jiked.  I  have  no  conventions, 
but  I  have  a  conscience — there's  my  husband  to 
consider  now,  and — and  more,  too.  I  shouldn't 
be  contented  like  that  to-day — I  should  have 
injured  others.  You  and  I  let  our  chance  slide, 
and  we  shall  never  get  it  back.  .  .  .  Smile,  and 
say  something  about  nothing — there  are  people 
who  know  me  coming  along." 

And  he  did  not  sleep  at  the  George  after  all; 
in  the  next  train  that  left  for  Euston,  a  grey- 
faced  man  sat  with  wide  eyes,  cursing  his  own 
obtuseness.  And  he  has  not  met  her  since.  There 
is,  of  course,  a  brighter  side  to  the  history — al- 
though Rhoda  is  unhappy,  she  is  happier  than 
she  would  have  remained  with  Wendover  when 
the  gilt  was  off  the  gingerbread;  and  though 
Wendover  will  never  forget  her,  he  cherishes  her 
memory  with  more  tenderness  than  he  would 
have  continued  to  cherish  the  girl. 

But  neither  she  nor  he  recognises  this,  and  in 
JTendover's  latest  work,  one  may  see  the  hne 


THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN      17 

that  has  been  quoted :    "Our  bitterest  remorse  is 
not  for  our  sins,  but  for  our  stupidities." 

The  reception  of  the  novel  was  most  flattering, 
and  as  usual  the  author's  "insight  into  the  mind 
of  Woman"  has  been  pronounced  "remarkable." 


A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL 

Bagot  told  us  this  tale  in  the  Stage  Door  Club 
one  night.  We  were  sitting  round  the  fire,  talk- 
ing of  perfect  love,  and  somebody  asked  him  if 
he  had  ever  thought  of  marrying. 

"Once,"  said  the  comedian  cheerfully. 

"Couldn't  you  afford  it?"  His  talent  and  the 
remains  of  his  good  looks  were  worth  fifty 
pounds  a  week  to  him  then,  but  there  had  been 
days — well,  listen  to  Bagot! 

"It  wasn't  that  I  couldn't  afford  it,"  he  said 
with  a  laugh;  "actors  never  wait  till  they  can 
afford  it.  I  escaped  in  a  curious  way.  What 
saved  me  was  being  such  an  artist.  Fact!  I 
was  really  smitten.  If  I  hadn't  been  an  artist  in 
spite  of  myself  I  should  be  shivering  in  the  last 
train  home  to  Bedford  Park  now,  instead  of 
talking  to  you  dear  boys  in  an  arm-chair,  with  a 
glass  at  my  side.  What?  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  about 
it  with  pleasure! 

"Of  course,  you  know  I  made  my  name  as  the 
'Rev.  Simon  Tibbits'  in  poor  Pulteney's  Touch 
and  Go.  Some  things  a  man  doesn't  forget,  and 
I  remember  how  I  felt  when  I  settled  for  the  part 

18 


A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL  1& 

better  than  I  remember  yesterday.  You  see  it 
was  my  first  London  engagement,  and  I  had 
been  trying  to  get  one  in  London  for  sixteen 
years.  Sixteen  years  I  had  been  on  the  road — 
and  seen  the  amateurs  with  money  sauntering  on 
to  the  West  End  stage  from  their  Varsity  Club ! 

"]\Iy  agent  had  told  me  to  try  my  luck  at  the 
office  over  the  theatre,  one  morning  in  July,  and 
when  I  went  in,  there  was  nobody  there  but  a 
young  man  who  I  guessed  must  be  Pulteney.  He 
was  sitting  at  the  table  with  a  pencil  in  his  hand, 
fiddling  with  a  model  of  one  of  the  scenes,  and 
looking  as  worried  as  if  he  had  been  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer. 

"  'Have  I  the  honour  of  speaking  to  Mr.  Pul- 
teney?' said  I.  In  those  days  I  imagined  authors 
were  important  persons. 

"He  flushed,  and  smiled — rather  on  the  wrong 
side  of  his  mouth,  I  thought.    'That's  my  name.' 

*'  'I  was  sent  round  to  see  you  about  the  part 
of  the  clergyman  in  your  farcical  comedy,  Mr, 
Pulteney,'  I  said.  I  had  really  been  sent  to  see 
the  stage-manager,  but  soft  soap  is  never  wasted, 
and  I  was  always  a  bit  of  a  diplomatist. 

"He  asked  me  to  sit  down,  and  we  talked.  He 
was  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  I  thought  for  a 
moment  he  was  going  to  offer  me  one.  I  suppose 
it  occurred  to  him  that  it  wouldn't  be  the  right 


20      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

thing  to  ask  an  actor  to  smoke  in  the  manager's 
room,  for  he  threw  his  own  cigarette  away.  He 
was  a  gentleman,  poor  Pulteney,  though  he  was 
a  deuced  bad  dramatist. 

"The  manager  came  bustling  back  soon,  and 
began  to  hum  and  haw,  but  Pulteney  put  in  a 
word  that  made  it  all  right.  I  was  told  it  was  a 
capital  part,  and  a  big  chance  for  me,  and  I 
skipped  downstairs  and  out  into  the  street,  feel- 
ing as  pufFed-up  as  if  I  owned  the  Strand.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  salary  wasn't  much — I  had 
had  better  money  in  the  provinces — but  the 
thought  of  making  a  hit  in  the  West  End  so 
excited  me  that  I  was  nearly  popping  with  pride. 

"Great  Cumberland  Place!  wasn't  I  sold  when 
the  part  came.  You've  no  idea  how  duffing  it 
really  was.  I  don't  mind  saying  that  a  good 
many  jolly  fine  comedians  would  never  have  got 
a  laugh  in  it.  When  I  read  the  jokes  I  could 
have  cried.  It  wasn't  funny  as  the  author  wrote 
it,  dear  boys,  believe  me.  I  don't  want  to  brag 
of  what  I've  done — I'm  not  the  man  to  gas  about 
myself— but  it  was  the  character  I  put  into  it 
that  made  Pulteney's  piece ! 

"Well,  the  rehearsals  weren't  beginning  for 
three  weeks,  and  I  kept  hoping  I'd  see  how  to  do 
something  with  it  before  the  first  call.  I  spoke 
the  lines  one  way,  and  I  spoke  the  lines  another 


A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL     21 

way,  and  the  more  I  studied  the  glummer  I  felt 
I  had  my  dinner  at  Exeter  Hall  several  times 
and  listened  to  the  people  giving  their  orders;  it 
was  cheap,  and  I  thought  I  might  hear  the  sort 
of  tone  I  was  trying  to  get  hold  of.  But  I  didn't. 
On  the  Sunday  I  went  to  three  churches  and  sat 
through  three  sermons.  Honest  Injun!  And 
that  was  no  use.  Talk  about  an  R.A.'s  difficulty 
in  finding  the  right  model?  I  spent  eight  dusty 
days  scouring  London  for  a  model  for  the  'Rev. 
Simon  Tibbits'! 

"Then  one  afternoon  I  had  come  out  of  Pross- 
ers'  Avenue.  As  it  happened  I  wasn't  thinking 
shop;  I  wasn't  thinking  about  anything  in  par- 
ticular; and  all  of  a  sudden  I  heard  a  voice.  A 
voice?  I  heard  the  voice.  I  heard  the  voice  I 
needed  for  the  part  I 

"I  jumped.  My  heart  was  in  my  throat. 
There,  smiling  up  at  a  six-foot  constable,  was  a 
little  parson  asking  the  way  to  Baker  Street.  He 
looked  like  an  elderly  cherub,  with  his  pink 
cheeks,  and  his  innocent,  inquiring  eyes.  I  held 
my  breath  in  the  hope  he  would  go  on  talking, 
but  the  policeman  had  answered  him,  and  he 
tripped  along  with  merely  a  'Thank  you.'  He 
^ripped  along  with  the  oddest  walk  I  have  ever 
^een;  and  I  dodged  after  him,  never  taking  my 


22      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

gaze  off  his  legs  and  studying  them  all  the  way 
to  Charing  Cross. 

"As  I  expected,  he  was  going  by  bus.  There 
was  one  just  moving.  Up  went  his  umbrella; 
and  the  next  moment  I  was  on  the  step,  too,  in- 
tending to  lure  him  into  conversation  as  soon  as 
I  could,  and  master  his  voice  as  nicely  as  I  was 
mastering  his  legs. 

"  'Full  inside,'  said  the  conductor,  putting  his 
dirty  hand  before  my  face.  I  was  so  annoyed  I 
could  have  punched  his  head! 

"Well,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on 
top  and  wait  for  someone  to  get  out.  Hang  it, 
nobody  did  get  out;  and  I  saw  no  more  of  my 
little  model  till  we  reached  Baker  Street.  I 
meant  to  let  him  walk  a  few  yards,  and  then  ask 
him  to  direct  me  to  Lord's,  but  there  was  a  sur- 
prise for  me ;  he  tripped  across  the  road  into  the 
station.  'Oho,'  I  said  to  myself,  'training  it?  So 
much  the  better!  We're  going  to  have  a  com- 
fortable chat  together,  after  all,  you  and  I !' 

"I  kept  as  close  to  him  when  he  took  his  ticket 
as  if  I'd  designs  on  his  watch,  and  I  heard  him 
say,  'Thu'd  class  to  Rickmansworth,  if  you 
please.'  This  was  rather  awkward — I  didn't 
want  to  pay  a  long  fare,  and  I  didn't  know  the 
line  well ;  I  had  to  book  as  far  as  Rickmansworth, 
too.     When  we  got  round  to  the  platform  the 


A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL    23 

train  was  there,  and  he  hovered  up  and  down  for 
five  minutes  or  more,  looking  for  a  seat  to  suit 
him;  I  began  to  think  we'd  both  be  left  behind. 
Then  just  as  they  were  slamming  the  doors,  he 
made  up  his  mind.  In  he  went,  and  I  after  him, 
and — what  do  you  think?  We  were  both  on  the 
same  side  of  the  compartment,  with  a  fat  wo:iian 
and  a  soldier  between  us! 

"Two  passengers  between  us,  I  give  you  my 
word,  and  no  room  opposite.  Not  only  I  couldn't 
talk  to  him — I  couldn't  even  see  him.  Every 
time  we  drew  into  a  station  I  prayed  the  com- 
partment would  thin  a  bit ;  I  sat  tense,  watching 
the  faces.  Not  a  sign  on  them!  You've  heard 
of  the  American  rustic  who  got  so  exasperated 
standing  up  in  a  crowded  car,  that  at  last  he 
shouted,  'Say!  ain't  none  o'  you  people  got 
homes?'    That  was  how  I  felt." 

Bagot's  imitation  of  the  rustic  was  very  good, 
and  we  signified  our  appreciation  in  the  usual 
way.  When  the  laugh  was  over  someone  told 
the  waiter  we  were  thirsty,  and  the  story-teller 
filled  his  pipe. 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  puffing,  "to  cut  a  long 
journey  short,  we  reached  Rickmans worth  with- 
out my  having  had  a  glimpse  of  my  gentleman.  I 
was  about  desperate  now.  lie  hadn't  taken  a 
dozen  steps  when  I  overtook  him,  and  asked  if 


24j      the  man  who  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

he  would  be  kind  enough  to  inform  me  whether 
any  decent  apartments  were  to  be  had  in  the  vil- 
lage. It  didn't  seem  worth  while  to  have  had  all 
this  bother  just  to  hear  him  speak  again  for  ten 
seconds,  and  I  was  wishing  myself  back  in  my 
apartments  in  Kennington.  I  said  the  first  thing 
that  came  into  my  head. 

"It  turned  out  to  be  the  best  question  I  could 
have  put. 

"I  am  a  visitor  myself,"  he  said,  beaming  at 
me,  "but  I  believe  there  are  rooms  to  be  had  in 
Cornstalk  Terrace.  Yes,  I  am  alaiost  positive 
I  noticed  a  card  in  a  window  as  I  passed  through 
the  street  this  morning." 

"I  stood  simply  lapping  his  voice  up. 

"  'Is  it  difficult  for  a  stranger  to  find  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'No,  indeed,'  he  said,  'it  is  quite  near.  But 
I  am  going  there;  if  you  care  to  accompany 
me ' 

"  'Oh,  you're  too  good!'  I  exclaimed,  and  upon 
my  word  I  could  have  hugged  him ! 

"The  road  was  a  great  deal  nearer  than  I 
wanted  it  to  be,  for  he  was  chirruping  to  me 
beautifully,  and  I  hated  to  part  from  him.  When 
we  arrived  I  effervesced  with  gratitude,  and  he 
hoped  I'd  find  comfortable  quarters;  and  then  I 
went  straight  back  to  the  station — and  heard  that 
I  had  just  missed  a  train!     Pleasant?     Rick- 


A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL    25 

mansworth  isn't  the  sprightliest  place  I've  ever 
waited  in  either.  I  had  some  nourishment  in  the 
bar  of  the  hotel  across  the  way,  and  I  examined 
the  High  Street.  It  wasn't  extensive.  The  bar- 
maid had  told  me  there  was  a  park  close  by,  so 
I  started  to  discover  it.  I  wasn't  keen  on  the 
park,  you  understand,  but  I  thought  it  would  be 
a  nice  quiet  spot  to  rehearse  in  and  see  if  I  had 
caught  the  little  cleric's  voice.  As  I  was  going 
along,  past  a  row  of  villas,  blest  if  I  didn't  come 
across  him  again,  standing  at  his  gate ! 

"He  supposed  I  had  been  hunting  for  lodgings 
all  the  time,  so,  of  course,  I  had  to  keep  the  game 
up.  He  was  a  friendly  old  chap  and,  honour 
bright,  I  felt  sorry  to  think  I  was  going  to  turn 
him  into  ridicule  on  the  stage.  Still  he  would 
never  know,  and  actors  can't  be  choosers.  He 
went  inside  to  ask  his  landlady  if  she  could  rec- 
ommend any  diggings  to  me ;  and  a  minute  after- 
wards, out  he  fluttered  to  say  he  had  quite  for- 
gotten there  would  be  a  couple  of  rooms  vacant 
in  that  very  house  next  day.  Christopher  Colum- 
bus! I  had  had  no  more  idea  of  taking  rooms 
than  I  had  of  taking  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury 
Lane.  But  it  was  too  gigantic  a  chance  to  miss. 
I  fixed  the  matter  with  the  old  woman  there  and 
then — and  the  next  morning  my  model  and  I 
Were  living  under  the  same  roof!  .   .   .  Pass  the 


26      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

matches,  one  of  you  fellows,  my  pipe's  out.  .   .   . 

"At  the  back  of  the  house  there  were  some  let- 
tuces and  a  clothes-prop  that  were  called  a  'gar- 
den.' My  parlour  was  at  the  back,  too ;  and  after 
dinner  I  saw  the  rector  airing  himself.  By  now 
I  had  learnt  he  was  a  rector.  I  lost  no  time  in 
joining  him,  you  may  be  sure — I  wasn't  paying 
two  rents  to  go  to  sleep  on  the  sofa — and  we  dis- 
cussed politics  and  public  libraries.  It  was  a  bit 
heavy  for  me,  but  I  didn't  worry  much  what  he 
talked  about  so  long  as  I  could  hear  his  dulcet 
tones.  I  ought  to  have  said  there  was  a  bench 
against  the  clothes-prop ;  so  far  as  her  means  per- 
mitted, the  old  woman  did  things  handso  iiely. 

"There  was  a  bench,  and  we  sat  down  on  it; 
and  while  we  were  sitting  there,  the  door  opened 
— and  out  into  the  sunshine  there  came  a  young 
and  beautiful  girl.  She  wore  a  white  cotton 
frock,  and  there  was  no  paint  or  powder  on  her 
face,  and  she  had  the  kind  of  eyes  that  make  you 
want  to  say  your  prayers  and  be  good.  I'm  not 
going  to  gush — I'm  holding  myself  in — but  on 
my  honour  she  was  just  the  saintliest  picture  of 
English  maidenhood  ever  seen  in  a  poet's  dream ! 

"  'My  daughter,'  said  my  model. 

"I  was  so  staggered  that  I  bowed  like  a  super 
at  a  bob  a  night. 

"Yes,  the  old  woman  did  things  handsomely — 


A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL     27 

there  was  room  for  three  on  the  bench.  She 
sat  by  me,  turning  a  backyard  into  paradise — I 
mean  the  girl,  not  the  old  woman — and  I  forgot 
to  study  her  father  for  half  an  hour.  I  heard 
where  his  living  was,  and  why  they  were  taking 
a  holiday,  and  I  stammered  that  I  was  an  actor, 
and  was  afraid  they'd  be  shocked.  I  was  stupid 
to  own  it,  though  it  was  all  right  and  they  didn't 
mind ;  but  there  was  something  in  that  girl's  eyes 
that  forced  the  truth  from  you  in  spite  of  your- 
self. I  had  been  going  to  say  I  was  in  the  City, 
but  the  lie  stuck. 

"There's  some  fine  country  round  Rickmans- 
worth — 'Ricky,'  the  natives  call  it — and  we  used 
to  explore,  the  three  of  us.  We'd  go  to  Chorley 
Wood,  and  to  Chenies — what  a  good  back  cloth 
Chenies  would  make!  By  the  end  of  the  week 
we  were  together  nearly  all  the  day.  They  invit- 
ed me  into  their  room  to  supper,  and  after  supper 
Marion  would  sing  at  a  decrepit  piano.  The 
meals  were  quite  plain,  you  know — sometimes 
we'd  pick  the  green  stuff  in  the  garden  ourselves 
— but,  boys,  the  peace  of  that  little  village  room 
in  the  lamplight!  The  minister  and  his  child — 
the  simple.  God-fearing  man  and  that  girl  with 
her  deep,  grave  eyes,  and  earnest  voice.  Their 
devotion  to  each  other,  the  homeliness  of  it  all! 
To  me,  a  touring  player,  it  was  sweet,  it  was 


28      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

wonderful,  to  be  welcomed  in  an  atmosphere  of 
home. 

"If  the  comedy  had  been  put  into  rehearsal  on 
the  date  arranged  it  would  have  been  better  for 
me.  But  it  wasn't — the  rehearsals  were  post- 
poned— and  soon  I  was  thinking  much  more  of 
Marion  than  of  my  part.  I  used  to  talk  to  her 
of — well,  of  things  I  had  never  talked  of  to  any- 
one except  my  mother  when  I  was  a  kid.  Some- 
how I  didn't  feel  ashamed  to  talk  of  them  to  that 
girl.  She  took  me  out  of  myself.  She  raised  me 
up.    The  footlights  were  forgotten. 

"Oh,  I  had  no  right  to  think  of  her  in  the  way 
I  did,  of  course !  What  could  I  hope  for  ?  There 
was  a  world  between  us,  and  I  saw  it.  I  told 
myself  that  I  had  done  all  I  came  to  do,  and 
that  I  ought  to  go  back  to  town  at  once!  I  told 
myself  I  was  mad  to  stay  there.  But  I  knew  I 
loved  her.  I  loved  her  as  I  have  never  loved  a 
woman  since — and  there  were  moments  when  I 
thought  that  she  was  fond  of  m^." 

Bagot,  it  was  rapidly  becoming  evident  to  us, 
had  forgotten  that  he  had  prefaced  the  story  by 
congratulating  himself  on  not  having  married 
the  girl.  His  voice  trembled.  We  saw  that,  car- 
ried away  by  his  own  intensity  as  a  narrator,  he 
was  beginning  to  beheve  he  was  a  blighted  being. 


A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL    29 

But  we  looked  sympathetic,  and  let  him  work  it 
up. 

"One  day  she  owned  she  cared  for  me,"  he 
continued,  with  a  far-away  air.  "It  was  the  day 
before  they  were  going  home,  and  we  were  talk- 
ing of  our  'friendship.'  Somehow  I — I  lost  my 
head,  and  she  was  crying  in  my  arms. 

"I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  I  swore  she  should 
never  repent  it.  She  sat  listening  to  me  with  her 
hands  limp  in  her  lap,  and  a  look  on  her  face  that 
I  shall  see  till  I  die.  She  was  afraid — not  of  me, 
but  that  her  father  wouldn't  consent.  They  had 
no  violent  prejudice  against  the  theatre,  but  she 
had  never  been  to  one  in  her  life;  for  her  to 
marry  an  actor  seemed  an  impossible  thing. 

"I  went  to  him  right  off.  I  told  him  I  wor- 
shipped her;  I  implored  him  to  trust  her  to  me. 
It  was  an  awful  shock  to  him ;  I  don't  believe  he 
had  had  a  suspicion  of  the  state  of  affairs — he  re- 
proached himself  for  letting  it  come  about.  But 
he  was  very  gentle.  He  said  he  had  hoped  for  a 
far  different  future  for  her,  still  that  all  he  want- 
ed was  for  his  child  to  be  happy;  he  said  he 
couldn't  stand  in  her  way  if  he  knew  she  was 
really  sure  of  herself.  In  the  end  he  promised 
she  should  marry  me  if  she  wanted  to  in  three 
years'  time. 

"When  I  parted  from  her  we  considered  we 


30      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

were  engaged ;  and  in  the  evening,  after  they  left, 
I  went  to  town, 

"I  went  to  town,  and  there  was  a  call  for  the 
first  rehearsal  of  Touch  and  Go.  I  had  forgot- 
ten business,  I  had  forgotten  everything  but  Ma- 
rion. That  call  paralysed  me.  I  saw  what  I  had 
done,  I  realised  the  situation.  The  girl  I  was  to 
marry  reverenced  her  father — and  I  meant  to 
burlesque  him  on  the  stage ! 

"I  couldn't  do  it,  I  wouldn't!  How  could  I 
think  of  it  now?  It  wasn't  that  I  feared  their 
finding  it  out — as  I  tell  you,  they  weren't  play- 
goers, and  their  home  was  a  good  way  off  besides 
— it  was  the  heartlessness  of  the  thing  that  fright- 
ened me.  To  make  myself  up  as  her  father?  To 
speak  the  bland,  hypocritical  lines  of  the  part  in 
her  father's  voice,  to  mimic  him,  to  turn  him  into 
ridicule  to  amuse  a  crowd.  I  say  how  could  I 
doit? 

"All  the  same  it  was  precious  difficult  to  avoid, 
for  I  had  studied  him  so  long.  But  I  went  to 
the  show  box  the  first  day  and  rehearsed  as  I  had 
expected  to  rehearse  before  I  met  him.  Perhaps 
not  so  well;  it  was  a  strain  not  to  be  like  him 
after  all  my  study,  and  it  made  me  pretty  rotten. 
I  rehearsed  so  the  first  day,  and  for  three  or  four 
days,  and  presently  I  began  to  notice  that  the 
Management  was  a  bit  unhappy,  and  that  Pul- 


A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL    31 

teney  nearly  twisted  his  moustache  out  during 
my  scenes.  If  an  author  has  written  a  bad  part, 
trust  him  to  blame  the  actor!  He  button-holed 
me  at  last,  and  begged  me  'to  put  a  little  more 
character  into  it.'  And  I  tried  to.  But  I  knew 
it  was  a  failure,  for  I  could  only  see  one  charac- 
ter all  the  time — and  that  one  I  wouldn't  touch. 

"When  I  was  in  the  stalls  once,  he  and  the 
manager  sat  down  and  put  their  heads  together. 
It  was  dark  in  front,  and  they  hadn't  seen  me  as 
they  came  round.  I  heard  them  say  something 
about  'a  pity  they  hadn't  a  West  End  actor  for 
the  part.'  I  knew  they  were  talking  of  my  part» 
and  it  got  my  dandei  up ;  I  knew  I  could  act  any 
of  that  West  End  hoity-toity  company  off  the 
stage ;  I  knew  I  had  only  to  let  myself  go. 

"When  I  went  on  again  I  determined  I'd  show 
'em  what  I  could  do;  I  determined  I'd  show  'em 
they  had  a  better  comedian  than  any  forty-pound 
-a-weeker.  I  sent  them  into  fits.  'Hallo!'  they 
said.  The  women  in  the  wings  stopped  talking 
about  their  dresses  to  watch  me.  The  highly 
connected  amateurs  from  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
began  to  give  at  the  knees,  and  I  could  hear  the 
leading  man's  heart  drop  on  to  the  boards;  the 
actor  from  the  provinces  was  wiping  them  outl 
That  rehearsal  was  the  sweetest  triumph  of  my 
life. 


32      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"She'd  never  know — she'd  never  know!  I 
kept  telling  myself  she  couldn't  hear  of  it.  By 
the  time  the  wig  that  I  ordered  was  tried  on  I 
felt  as  sure  of  success  as  I  was  of  my  lines!  I 
yvsis  soaked  in  the  part.  I  wasn't  acting  the  little 
rector — by  George,  I  was  the  little  rector,  trip, 
face  and  chirrup.  And  the  first  night  came,  and 
I  was  to  play  in  London  at  last ! 

"They  told  me  the  house  was  crammed.  All 
the  swell  critics  were  there,  all  the  fashionable 
first-nighters.  I  was  so  nervous  that  the  wig- 
paste  shook  in  my  hands  when  I  made  up,  but 
I  was  ready  much  too  soon. 

"I  went  downstairs  and  waited.  The  door- 
keeper gave  me  a  note.    Of  all  the !    It  was 

from  Marion.  A  friend  had  brought  her  up  to 
see  me,  and  she  was  in  the  theatre.  I  was 
stunned,  I  thought  I  was  going  to  fall.  You 
know — every  man  in  this  room  knows — that  for 
an  actor  to  remodel  his  performance  at  the  last 
minute  would  be  a  miracle.  I  couldn't  do  it,  it 
wasn't  in  my  power ;  but  even  then  I  thought  I'd 
try.  I  said  I  miist  try^  though  it  would  ruin  me! 
And  I  heard  my  cue. 

"My  first  fines  went  for  nothing.  I  floun- 
dered— the  audience  were  ice;  I  saw  the  people 
on  the  stage  looking  at  me  aghast.  Then  sudden- 
ly I  got  a  laugh :  a  gesture,  an  intonation,  some- 


A  VERY  GOOD  THING  FOR  THE  GIRL    3S 

thing  I  had  been  trying  to  hold  back,  had  es- 
caped me.  The  laugh  went  to  my  head — I  made 
them  laugh  again!  I  said  I'd  explain  to  Marion 
— that  she'd  understand,  that  she'd  forgive  me — 
and  even  while  I  said  it,  my  other  self,  the  'self 
that  wasn't  acting,  knew  it  was  a  lie  and  I  was 
losing  her. 

i  *'I  couldn't  help  it — the  laughter  made  me 
drunk;  I  did  it  all  I  I  knew  the  disgust  she  must 
be  feeling,  but  the  audience  were  roaring  at  me 
now ;  I  felt  the  shame  that  she  was  suffering  with 
my  own  heart,  but  the  artist  in  me  swept  me  on. 
The  manager  panted  at  me  in  the  wings :  'You're 
great — you're  immense.  Gad!  you're  making 
the  hit  of  the  piece !'  The  stalls  were  in  convul- 
sions, the  gallery  had  got  my  name.  'Bagotf 
they  were  shouting — after  each  act,  'Bagot!^ 
Pulteney  rushed  to  me  with  blessings  at  the  end. 
The  house  thundered  for  me.  It  was  London! 
I  knew  that  I  was  'made' !  But  across  the  flare 
of  grinning  faces,  I  seemed  to  see  the  Angel  1 
had  lost  and  the  horror  in  her  eyes." 

Bagot  bowed  his  head;  his  pipe  had  fallen, 
tears  dripped  down  his  cheeks.  By  this  time  he 
was  quite  sure  he  had  been  mourning  for  her  ever 
since  beside  a  lonely  hearth. 

"She  WTote  to  me  next  day,  breaking  it  off," 


64.      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

he  groaned.  "She  wouldn't  hsten  to  reason;  she 
said  it  'might  be  art,  but  it  wasn't  love.'  " 

"Did  you  ever  see  her  afterwards?"  we  asked. 

"Once,"  he  said,  "years  later.  She  married 
some  County  chap,  with  an  estate  and  all  that.  I 
saw  her  driving  with  her  little  boy.  She  looked 
very  happy  I  thought.  Women  soon  forget." 
After  a  pause  he  added  bitterly:  "If  one  of  you 
fellows" — he  glanced  at  the  only  author  in  the 
group — "cares  to  write  the  true  tragedy  of  a 
man's  life,  there  it  is.  You  might  call  it  'The 
Price  of  Success.'  " 

But  we  all  thought  a  more  appropriate  title 
would  be  the  one  that  I  have  used. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WISHED  TO  DIE 

My  meeting  with  JVIr.  Peters  was  so  momen- 
tous that  I  can't  resist  mentioning  it  was  due  to 
someone  I  had  never  seen — to  a  trifle;  I  can't 
resist  referring  to  my  own  affairs  for  a  moment. 
I  was  supposed  to  be  at  work  on  a  novel,  and  I 
had  a  mind  as  fertile  as  mashed  potato.  One  day 
in  August  I  tumbled  a  receipt  out  of  a  desk,  and 
saw  that  the  lady  to  whom  I  sent  my  stories  to  be 
typewritten  had  had  nothing  from  me  to  type- 
write for  two  months.  The  discovery  dismayed 
me.  I  was  ashamed  to  realise  how  slowly  I  was 
getting  on,  and  resolved  to  try  a  change  of  sur- 
roundings. JNIy  trip  altered  the  course  of  lives — 
and  I  shouldn't  have  made  it  but  for  the  reproach 
of  a  stranger's  receipt. 

I  decided  upon  Ostend,  by  way  of  Antwerp, 
where  I  wanted  to  see  the  pictures ;  also  I  meant 
to  visit  Brussels,  where  I  wanted  to  see  my  pret- 
tiest cousin.  And  in  Antwerp — behold  Mr.  Pe- 
ters! As  I  was  wandering  through  the  gallery, 
an  American  asked  me  if  I  could  tell  him  in  which 
of  the  rooms  he  would  find  "The  Last  Commun- 
ion of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi."    Having  just  been 

35 


S6      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

directed  to  it  myself — just  been  startled  by  the 
faultless  fluency  of  an  official's  English — I  had 
the  information  pat,  and  the  American  and  I 
proceeded  to  the  room  together. 

I  remexiber  feeling  it  incumbent  on  me  to  be 
pained  bj^  the  first  words  he  spoke  in  front  of  tKe 
picture. 

"I  am  told,"  he  remarked,  "that  Rubens  sold 
this  work  for  sixty  pounds,  English  money,  and 
that  forty  thousand  pounds  were  subsequently 
paid  for  it.     Kough  on  Rubens!" 

I  affected  the  tone  of  the  Superior  Person. 
"You  would  see  it  better  if  you  stood  further 
away,"  I  said;  "what  do  you  think  of  the  paint- 
ing?" 

"Of  the  painting,"  he  answered,  "I  am  no 
judge,  but  the  way  the  value  of  that  property 
has  risen  just  astonishes  me." 

I  did  not  think  I  should  like  him,  but  I  began 
to  like  him  surprisingly  soon.  He  was  a  sad- 
faced,  middle-aged  man,  with  a  simple  manner 
that  was  wonderfully  winning.  In  less  than  five 
minutes  I  was  humiliated  that  I  had  sneered  at 
him  in  front  of  "St.  Francis  of  Assisi."  By  what 
right,  how  much  did  I  understand  of  it  myself? 
My  attitude  had  been  nine-tenths  pose.  This 
man  was  genuine ;  he  spoke  of  what  he  found  in- 
teresting.   And  he  proved  anything  but  a  fool. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WISHED  TO  DIE     37 

We  went  down  the  steps  of  the  Musee  des 
Beaux  Arts  side  by  side,  and  strolled  through  the 
hot  streets,  among  the  swarm  of  ragged  Flemish 
children — there  are  more  ragged  children  to  the 
square  yard  in  Antwerp  than  in  Westbourne 
Park — to  the  quarter  of  the  hotels.  It  turned 
out  that  we  were  stapng  at  the  same  one,  he  on 
the  first  floor  and  I  on  the  fifth,  and  after  dinner 
we  drifted  together  to  the  place  Verte,  and  talked 
there  under  the  trees  while  the  band  played. 

He  told  me  that  he  had  not  been  to  Europe  be- 
fore, and  I  discerned  that  he  was  a  lonely  man 
persevering  with  the  effort  to  enjoy  himself. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said,  handing  me  his  cigar- 
case,  "I  ought  to  have  made  the  trip  some  years 
ago. — Won't  you  tiy  a  cigar,  sir? — There's  noth- 
ing the  matter  with  Europe,  but  I  guess  I'm  not 
quite  so  keen  on  sight-seeing  as  I  was.  When  I 
was  a  lad  I  was  dead-stuck  on  coming  over,  but 
I  hadn't  the  dollars  then.  I  promised  myself  to 
have  a  good  time  when  I  was  thirty,  and  I 
hustled.  When  I  was  thirty  I  had  made  a  few 
dollars,  but  I  saw  no  chance  of  the  good  time — 
I  was  still  hustling.  One  afternoon  it  occurred 
to  me  that  I  was  forty.  It  displeased  me  some; 
seemed  to  me  that  good  time  was  never  coming. 
At  the  start  I  had  aimed  to  be  the  boss  of  a  busi- 
ness, but  now  the  business  had  got  so  big  it  was 


S8      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

bossing  me.  'Well,'  I  said,  'you  have  made  yom* 
pile,  and  you  have  nobody  to  spend  it  on  but 
yourself ;  next  year  you  shall  quit,  and  have  that 
good  time  you  have  been  working  for  so  long.' 
But  it  didn't  come  off.  The  business  went 
on  swelling,  and  I  went  on  saying,  'Next  year.' 
And  before  I  knew  where  I  was  I  was  fifty, 
and" — his  voice  dropped  a  little — "and  I  have 
never  had  the  good  time  yet." 

He  was  leaving  for  Ostend  the  next  morning, 
and,  when  we  parted,  I  was  sorry  he  wasn't  to 
remain  in  Antwerp  till  the  end  of  the  week  like 
myself.  However,  at  Ostend  I  expected  we 
should  meet  again,  for  I  did  not  mean  to  stay 
long  in  Brussels.  It  is  a  beautiful  city,  and  many 
of  us  would  admire  it  much  more  if  it  did  not  set 
us  yearning  for  Paris.  The  resemblance  is  strik- 
ing, but  the  fascination  is  absent.  To  go  to  Brus- 
sels is  like  calling  on  the  sister  of  the  woman  one 
is  in  love  with.  Brussels  is  Paris  provincialised ; 
one  realises  it  before  one  has  sat  outside  a  cafe 
for  an  hour  and  watched  the  types  go  by.  Liter- 
ally it  is  provincialised  in  August,  when  most  of 
the  theatres  are  closed,  and  the  streets  are  peo- 
pled by  excursionists.  I  had  intended  to  stay 
three  of  four  days  at  most,  but  duty  to  my  rela- 
tives kept  me  with  them  for  ten  or  twelve,  and  at 


THE  WOiVIAN  WHO  WISHED  TO  DIE    39 

last  when  I  did  reach  Ostend  I  had  ahnost  for- 
gotten Mr.  Peters. 

The  thought  of  him  recurred  to  me  as  I  made 
my  way  towards  the  Kursaal  on  the  first  evening, 
and  I  wondered  if  he  was  still  here.  It  was  eight 
o'clock,  and  now  that  the  glare  of  sun  upon  the 
blistered  Digue  had  faded,  and  the  radiance  of 
electricity  had  risen  in  its  stead,  the  town  was 
looking  its  best.  Ostend  was  still  dining.  The 
long  continuous  line  of  hotel  windows  fronting 
the  sea  was  brilhant.  Window  after  window, 
wide,  curtainless,  and  open  to  the  view.  A  front- 
age of  gleaming  tables  and  coloured  candle- 
shades — a  dazzling  frontage  of  flowers,  and 
faces,  and  women's  jewelled  necks  and  arms. 

In  the  Kursaal  the  orchestra  was  playing 
"L'Amico  Fritz."  I  had  listened  to  the  music 
for  perhaps  half  an  hour  when  I  saw  ]Mr.  Peters. 
He  was  with  a  friend,  and  he  passed  without  ob- 
serving me.  They  sat  down  a  short  distance  off 
and  I  noticed  that  he  was  talking  with  much  an- 
imation to  her,  with  much  more  animation  than 
he  had  shown  with  me.  Indeed,  I  think  that  was 
what  I  noticed  first  of  all — the  unexpected  ani- 
mation of  Mr.  Peters. 

But  the  next  instant  I  was  engrossed  by  his 
companion.  She  was  not  youthful ;  I  didn't  con- 
sider her  pretty;  her  dress,  rich  as  it  was,  ap- 


40      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

peared  to  me  a  dowdy  sort  of  thing  among  the 
elaborate  toilettes  around  us.  Then  what  en- 
grossed me?  Well,  it  was  the  expression  that 
she  wore.  I  am  trying  to  find  the  word.  "Pleas- 
ure," of  course — but  that  says  nothing.  As  near- 
ly as  I  can  explain,  it  was  the  wonder  in  her  look. 
The  "wonder,"  that  is  it !  There  were  crow's-feet 
about  her  eyes,  and  her  gaze  shone  with  a  young 
girl's  wonder. 

Evidently  the  interest  in  the  conversation  was 
mutual,  and  I  assumed  that  they  had  known  each 
other  in  the  States.  Then  a  second  trnie  they 
passed  me,  and  I  heard  her  speak,  and  she  had 
no  trace  of  the  American  accent.  It  began  to 
seem  to  me  that  Mr.  Peters  had  been  losing  no 
time  at  Ostend. 

I  saw  him  with  her  again  on  the  morrow,  and 
on  the  next  day,  but  two  or  three  days  went  by 
before  I  saw  him  alone.  When  we  did  have  a 
chat,  I  couldn't  withstand  the  temptation  to  al- 
lude to  her. 

"You're  in  better  spirits,"  I  said;  "have  you 
come  across  anybody  from  the  'other  side'  to 
cheer  you  up?" 

A  suspicion  of  a  smile  flickered  across  his  thin, 
shrewd  lips. 

"No,"  he  drawled;  "no,  I  have  met  no  ac- 
quaintances in  Europe  yet,  but "    He  hand- 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WISHED  TO  DIE     41 

ed  his  cigar-case  to  me :    "Won't  you  try  a  cigar, 
sir? — but  I  am  getting  along." 

I  used  to  wish  he  would  present  me  to  her,  but 
he  never  did.  Constantly  those  two  figures  sat 
together  in  the  Kursaal.  In  the  concert-room, 
or  on  the  terrace,  if  I  found  the  httle  woman  I 
found  Mr.  Peters.  Never  to  my  knowledge  did 
she  speak  to  anybody  else.  And  always  the  girl- 
ishness  of  her  gaze  held  and  mystified  me — al- 
ways, that  is  to  say,  until  the  end  was  approach- 
ing. 

Of  course,  I  didn't  know  that  it  threatened  the 
end  then,  but  I  couldn't  fail  to  preceive  the  differ- 
ence. The  curiosit}^  she  had  inspired  in  me  was 
so  strong,  I  had  watched  her  so  intently  for  near- 
ly a  fortnight — oh,  it  may  sound  vulgar;  I  don't 
defend  myself — that  the  first  time  I  glanced 
across  at  her  face  and  saw  trouble  there  I  was 
sensible  of  a  distinct  shock.  And  in  the  next 
few  days  I  said  it  was  heavy  trouble.  It  was  as 
if  the  blaze  within  her  were  dwindling,  as  if  it 
were  dying  out,  and  leaving  her  cold  and  grey. 
I  said — it  is  a  great  word,  but  once  I  said  the 
look  on  her  face  was  "terror." 

I  did  not  attach  any  importance  to  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Peters  was  sitting  alone  on  the  terrace 
when  I  went  to  the  Kursaal  one  evening,  because 
I  supposed  that  he  was  waiting  there  for  her  to 


42      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

come  in;  it  was  when  I  found  him  alone  in  the 
same  place  much  later  that  I  was  surprised.  You 
know  how  you  understand  sometimes,  without  a 
gesture,  that  a  man  wants  you  to  sit  down  by 
him,  but  doesn't  want  you  to  speak ;  I  knew  that 
Mr.  Peters  wanted  me  to  sit  down  by  him,  and 
didn't  want  me  to  speak.  I  think  we  must  have 
sat  looking  at  the  track  of  moonlight  on  the  sea 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  either  of  us  said 
a  word. 

Then  he  remarked  drily,  "My  friend  has 
gone." 

"You  must  miss  her,"  I  responded. 

He  mused  again,  and  handed  his  cigar-case  to 
me  with  his  usual  question.  I  said  I  would  havfe- 
a  cigarette. 

"You  found  me  dumfounded,"  he  resumed, 
puffing  his  cigar  deliberately,  "by  the  most  singu- 
lar occurrence  I  have  heard  of  in  my  life;  I  am 
beginning  to  get  my  breath  back.  You  may  have 
noticed  the  lady?" 

I  said  that  I  had. 

"I  guess  that  you  assume  her  to  be  a  wealthy 
woman?" 

I  said  that  I  did. 

"Well,  sir,  she  is  about  as  poor  as  they  make 
them.  I  have  lived  too  long  to  be  extravagant 
with  emotions,  but  that  little  lady's  history  has 


THE  WOAIAN  WHO  WISHED  TO  DIE     43 

just  broken  me  up.  As  a  writer  you  may  find  it 
worth  your  attention.  It  was  because  she  had 
always  been  solitary;  that  was  what  started  the 
trouble — her  loneliness.  It's  an  awful  thing  to 
conjecture  how  many  poor  little  women  in  Lon- 
don are  breaking  their  hearts  with  lonehness. 
Never  a  companion  she  had,  never  a  pleasure. 
INIornings  she  walked  to  her  employment;  even- 
ings she  walked  back  to  where  she  lodged.  She 
was  a  girl  of  eighteen  then,  and  she  walked  cheer- 
fully. And  she  was  cheerful  when  she  was  twen- 
ty, and  twenty-five,  and  thirty — always  keeping 
her  pluck  up  with  the  thought  of  something 
brighter  ahead,  you  know;  always  hoping,  like 
me,  for  that  'good  time.' " 

"Go  on,"  I  said. 

"When  she  had  been  clerking  years,  and  doing 
home  work  in  her  leisure,  she  had  put  a  small  sum 
by.  But  she  was  frightened  to  touch  it — there 
was  the  growing  fear  of  the  lonely  woman  that 
one  day  she  might  take  sick  and  need  that  money. 
And  the  'good  time'  didn't  come.  And  her  youth 
went  out  of  her,  and  lines  began  to  creep  about 
her  eyes  and  mouth — she  looked  in  the  glass  and 
saw  them — and  she  didn't  walk  to  and  from  quite 
so  bravely  now.  Twenty  years  odd  she  had  had 
of  drudgery,  and  the  hopefulness  was  dying  in 
her.    She  was  just  faint  with  longing,  sir.     She 


4^      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

wanted  to  put  on  pretty  things  before  she  was  old 
— she  was  starving  for  a  taste  of  the  sweets  that 
she  was  meant  for." 

He  blew  a  cii'clet  of  smoke  into  the  air,  and 
watched  it. 

"That  stage  passed.  Seemed  to  the  woman, 
as  time  dragged  on,  that  she  hadn't  the  energy 
left  to  long  for  anything.  She  was  tired.  When 
she  lay  down  to  sleep  she  wasn't  particulai'ly 
keen  on  waking  up  any  more.  As  I  see  the  mat- 
ter, it  was  by  no  means  the  work  that  had  done 
the  damage — it  was  the  dullness.  It  was  the 
emptiness  of  her  life,  the  forlornness  of  it.  By- 
and-by  she  had  to  go  to  a  doctor,  and  he  talked 
about  'depression'  and  'melancholia.'  He  said 
what  she  ought  to  do  was  to  live  with  friends — ■ 
she  was  about  as  friendless  as  Robinson  Crusoe 
before  Friday  turned  up — he  recommended  her 
to  seek  'gay  society'!  She  said  she  was  'much 
obliged,'  and  went  back  to  her  lodging,  and  sat 
staring  from  the  window  at  the  strangers  passing 
in  the  twilight.  I  don't  know  whether  you  have 
struck  a  case  of  melancholia  ?  A  man  I  was  fond 
of  was  taken  that  way  in  Buffalo.  Out  of  busi- 
ness he  would  sit  brooding  by  the  hour,  with  his 
eyes  wide,  and  never  saying  a  word.  I  stayed 
talking  to  him  once  half  the  night,  persuading 
him  to  put  a  change  of  linen  in  his  grip  and  start 


THE  WOIVIAN  WHO  WISHED  TO  DIE     45 

for  Europe  in  the  morning;  I  told  him  it  would 
do  him  good  to  hustle  round  the  stores,  buying 
most  things  he  needed  to  put  on,  after  he  arrived. 
I  guess  my  arguments  weren't  so  excellent  as  my 
intentions — when  I  went  down  town  after  break- 
fast I  heard  he  had  shot  himself.  Melancholia's 
likely  to  be  serious.  .  .  .  No,  the  doctor's  advice 
wasn't  much  use  to  the  little  woman.  Her  walk 
to  the  office  lay  across  some  bridge.  One  even- 
ing, as  she  was  crossing  it,  the  thought  came  that 
it  would  be  sweet  if  she  were  lying  in  the  river 
and  heard  the  water  singing  in  her  ears.  Then 
she  tore  herself  away  because  she  had  turned 
giddy.  Every  morning  and  evening  she  had  to 
cross  that  bridge,  you  understand  me.  Every 
morning  and  evening  that  thought  pulled  at  her, 
and  she  stopped  by  the  parapet  and  looked 
down." 

In  the  pause  he  made,  the  music  from  the  con- 
cert-room was  painfully  distinct.  They  were 
playing  the  "Invitation  to  the  Valsc." 

"Well,  just  as  with  the  friend  I  lost  in  Buf- 
falo," he  went  on  quietly,  "while  she  did  her  work 
hke  a  machine  all  day,  she  was  proposing  to  die. 
She  had  grown  so  woeful  tired  that  it  was  a  re- 
lief to  her  to  think  of  dying.  .  .  .  You  will  smile 
at  what  I  am  going  to  say.  One  afternoon  she 
saw  an  ordinary  picture  advertisement  stuck  on 


4^6      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

a  wall — a  picture  of  a  Continental  resort,  with 
fashionable  ladies  parading  on  the  Digue.  She 
told  me  that — with  the  thought  of  death  great  in 
her  mind — she  stood  right  there  in  the  London 
street,  looking  at  it ;  and,  sir,  her  regret  was  that 
she  was  going  out  of  the  world  without  once  hav- 
ing worn  a  pretty  frock,  or  bought  a  handful  of 
roses  in  December!  You  may  laugh  at  the  idea 
of  a  commonplace  poster  influencing  a  woman 
at  such  a  time?" 

"I  am  not  laughing,"  I  said. 

"She  harped  on  that  grievance  of  hers  till  some 
of  the  interests  of  her  girlhood  stirred  in  her 
again.  The  enthusiasm  had  gone,  but  she  was 
wistful.  And  she'd  sit  thinking.  She'd  sit  look- 
ing at  her  savings-book — all  she  had  to  show  for 
her  life.  She  figured  out  that  she  might  break 
away  from  her  eoiployment  and  have  luxury  for 
a  month.  When  the  month  was  up  she'd  be  des- 
titute, but  that  didn't  matter  because,  you  see, 
she  was  quite  prepared  to  go  to  sleep  in  the 
Thames.  That  little  drudge,  in  that  little  stuffy 
lodging,  took  a  notion  to  escape  for  once  into  the 
sunshine;  she  asked  herself  why  she  shouldn't 
live  for  a  month — before  she  died !  .  .   .   . 

"She  was  timid  when  she  went  to  buy  the 
showy  frocks;  she  touched  the  daintiest  of  them 
lovingly,  but  she  was  shy  to  choose  them  for  hcT^ 


THE  WO^IAN  WHO  WISHED  TO  DIE     47 

self.  She  felt  that  she  had  entered  the  store  too 
late  to  wear  the  things  she  had  hankered  for  so 
long.  She  came  here  the  day  after  I  arrived. 
She  appeared  a  sad  little  body,  sitting  next  to 
me  at  table ;  perhaps  that  was  why  I  took  to  her 
so;  but  now  it  just  amazes  me  to  think  of  the  way 
she  livened  up  when  we  had  grown  friends.  I 
have  heard  her  laugh,  sir!  I  have  heard  her 
laugh  quite  happily,  though  her  cash  was  melting 
like  an  ice-cream  in  an  oven;  though  she  had 
come  to  tremble  each  time  she  changed  a  gold 
piece;  though  she  had  come  to  shudder  at  each 
sunset  that  brought  her  nearer  to  the  End.  It 
was  only  this  afternoon  that  she  told  me  the  cir- 
cumstances !  I  had  seen  she  had  anxiety,  and  I — ■ 
asked  questions.  I  looked  to  meet  her  again  this 
evening,  but  I  got  a  letter  instead  to  say  I  should 
never  meet  her  any  more.  When  they  handed 
me  her  letter  she  had — gone." 

"You  don't  mean  she — she's  dead?"  I  whis- 
pered. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said.  "She  wrote  that  our  friend- 
ship had  helped  her  some ;  she  wrote  that  she  was 
going  back  to  her  old  lodging,  and  would  strug- 
gle on.  But  she  resigned  her  position,  and  she 
has  changed  her  last  bank-note — how  long  do 
you  surmise  that  she  will  have  the  heart  to 
struggle?'* 


48      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

He  lit  another  cigar;  and  among  the  jewelled, 
exotic  crowd  we  stared  absently  over  the  rail  at 
the  humble  flock  of  weary  trippers  who  lacked 
the  shillings  to  come  in.  One  may  do  worse  than 
cross  to  Ostend  merely  to  stand  by  that  slender 
rail  and  watch  the  two  worlds  that  it  divides. 

At  last  I  said:  "She  must  have  liked  you  very 
much :  her  feelings  for  you  made  her  want  to  live 
'. — and  then,  to  remain  here  with  you,  she  squan- 
dered the  money  that  she  needed  to  keep  her 
alive!" 

"It  makes  me  feel  good  to  hear  you  say  so," 
he  returned.  "It  is  not  encouraging  that  she  has 
disappeared,  knowing  that  she  had  never  men- 
tioned even  the  quarter  where  she  lodged;  but  it 
would  be  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life  if  that 
little  lady  would  consent  to  marry  me.  When 
we  get  up  we  shall  say  'Good-bye' — I  am  starting 
for  London  right  away." 

"Without  a  clue  to  her  address?" 

*'Yes,  sir^  without  a  notion.  I  don't  know 
where  she  lodged,  and  I  don't  know  where  she 
worked,  and  London's  a  mighty  big  city;  but  I 
estimate  there  are  about  two  sovereigns  between 
that  woman  and  the  river,  and  I  have  to  find  her 
before  they're  gone." 

In  his  glance  I  saw  the  grit  that  had  built  his 
fortune.    I  tried  to  be  hopeful. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WISHED  TO  DIE     49 

"If  she's  hunting  for  a  situation  she'll  look 
at  the  newspapers,"  I  said. 

"She  will  look  at  the  columns  that  interest 
her,"  he  answered,  "but  I  mayn't  advertise  on 
every  page." 

"You  can  pay  for  inquiries." 

"You  may  bet  I'll  pay;  all  that  worries  me  is 
that  inquiries  go  slow." 

"I  suppose  you  don't  know  which  bridge  it  is 
she  crosses  every  day?" 

"We  can  build  no  hopes  on  the  bridge,"  he 
replied;  "I  did  not  interrogate  her — I  did  not 
suspect  it  was  to  be  our  last  meeting." 

"She  may  struggle  longer  than  you  think;  she 
may  be  brave." 

"You  mean  it  kindly,"  he  said,  "but  you  have 
heard  her  history!  I  opine  that  I've  got  to  dis- 
cover that  address  within  a  week — I  am  racing 
against  time.  There's  just  this  in  my  favour,  she 
has  a  name  to  be  noticed.  She's  called  'Joanna 
Faed,'  and  I  guess  there  can't  be  many  women 
called  that,  even  in  a  city  the  size  of  London." 

"What  an  extraordinary  thing!"  I  faltered.  "I 
can  give  you  'Joanna  Faed's'  address  on  half  a 
hundred  receipts.  Why,  she  must  be  the  lady 
who  typewrites  my  stories  for  me!" 


FRANKENSTEIN  II 

I  WAS  at  the  Throne  Theatre  to  see  Orlando 
Lightfoot's  comedy.  Entering  the  buffet,  in  the 
first  interval,  I  met  Orlando  Lightfoot. 

*'Hallo,  old  man!"  I  said.  "Congratulations 
in  large  quantities." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  new  dramatist.  "Have 
you  seen  it  before?" 

"No;  but  I  saw  in  the  papers  that  it  was  an 
'emphatic  success.'  How  beautiful  Elsie  Millar 
is  in  the  part!" 

We  induced  one  of  the  personages  behind  the 
bar  to  notice  that  we  were  present,  and  removed 
our  glasses  to  a  table.    Orlando  sighed  heavily. 

"What's  your  trouble?"  I  inquired. 

"My  'emphatic  success,'  "  he  said.  "But  it's 
too  long  a  tale  to  tell  you  now — I  suppose  you 
want  to  see  the  second  act?" 

The  vindictiveness  with  which  he  pronounced 
the  last  two  words  was  startling.     I  stared  at 

him.     "My  dear  Orlando "  I  began,  but  he 

cut  me  short. 

"Call  me  'Frankenstein'!"  he  groaned.  "Like 
Frankenstein,  I've  constructed  a  monster  that's 

50 


FRANKENSTEIN  II  51 

destroying  me.  Before  I  created  this  accursed 
comedy  I  was  a  happy  man." 

"It  must  have  been  a  very  long  while  before," 
I  said.  "When  I  had  the  misfortune  to  share 
your  rooms,  you  used  to  remark  casually  at 
breakfast  that  you  wished  you  were  dead." 

"Anyone  is  liable  to  express  dissatisfaction  in 
moments;  but  on  the  whole  I  was  cheerful  and 
buoyant,  especially  when  you  were  out,"  he  in- 
sisted. "I  frequently  had  as  much  as  five  pounds 
at  the  time.  I'm  not  boasting;  you  know  it's 
true.  Five  pounds  at  the  time  is  prosperity,  if 
a  fellow  hasn't  got  a  monster  to  support.  Since 
I  wrote  the  comedy,  a  five-pound  note  has  been 
as  ephemeral  as  a  postage  stamp.  I  pinched  and 
pawned  to  start  the  monster  in  life.  What  it 
cost  me  in  typewriting  alone  would  have  kept  me 
for  a  month.  It  has  gorged  gold.  It  has  de- 
voured my  All.  And  now,  by  a  culminating 
stroke  of  diabolical  malice,  it's  breaking  my 
heart." 

"There's  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before 
the  act,"  I  said.  "Give  me  a  cigarette  and  tlie 
story — I  want  one  badly;  an  appreciative  editor 
is  eager  to  send  a  cheque." 

"Halves?"  asked  the  author  of  the  "emphatic 


success." 


"Halves,"  I  agreed. 


52      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Well,"  said  Orlando,  "the  devil  tempted  me 
in  the  pit  of  the  Vaudeville  one  night.  Elsie 
Millar  was  in  the  cast;  she  had  very  little  to  do, 
but,  as  usual,  she  did  it  exquisitely.  I  had  al- 
ways admired  her,  wished  I  knew  her,  and  that 
night  I  thought,  'By  Jove,  wouldn't  I  like  to 
vn-ite  a  big  part  for  her!  Wouldn't  she  make  a 
hit  if  she  only  got  the  chance !'  I  came  out  after 
the  performance  imagining  her  in  the  sort  of 
part  she's  playing  m  the  monster.  A  plot  was 
beginning  to  put  its  head  round  the  corner,  and 
I  wandered  out  of  the  Strand  on  to  the  Embank- 
ment trying  to  get  hold  of  it.  The  Embank- 
ment was  deserted,  and  the  river " 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "Cut  that  kind  of  thing— I  can 
put  it  in  when  I  do  the  writing.  I  don't  want  to 
miss  any  of  the  second  act." 

"Well,  I  went  to  bed  about  three  o'clock  with 
a  plot  that  enraptured  me.  When  I  woke  up  and 
saw  it  in  the  daylight,  it  didn't  look  quite  so  fetch- 
ing— as  is  the  way  of  plots  et  cetera ;  still,  it  had 
good  features,  if  it  wasn't  a  Venus,  and  I  curled 
its  hair,  and  titivated  it  generally,  till  it  was  fas- 
cinating again.  The  dialogue  was  the  most  in- 
teresting work — especially  the  love  scene;  I  en- 
joyed that.  It  was  like  making  love  to  a  nice 
girl  myself,  and  saying  the  right  things  at  the 
time  instead  of  thinking  of  'em  afterwards.     I 


FRANKENSTEIN  II  53 

ought  to  have  been  turning  out  stuff  for  the  pa- 
pers, but  I  let  them  sHde,  and  at  last  the  play  was 
finished.  It  sounds  as  rapid  as  filling  your  pipe, 
told  like  this ;  when  you  do  the  story  you  should 
stress  the  alternate  ups  and  downs  of  the  busi- 
ness :  the  nights  when  I  wrote  epigrams  and  felt 
like  Pinero,  and  the  mornings  when  I  read  'em 
and  felt  like  cutting  my  throat.  Don't  forget 
that.    It's  real." 

"I'll  remember,"  I  said.  "I'll  have  a  para- 
graph on  it." 

"Well,  I  had  two  copies  of  the  thing  type- 
written at  Miss  Beck's,  in  Rupert  Street;  and 
prett)^  they  were,  tied  up  with  pink  bows — till  I 
put  in  all  the  improvements  I  had  thought  of 
after  I  posted  to  her.  The  improvements  I  had 
thought  of  after  I  posted  to  her  made  such  a 
mess  of  the  copies  that  I  had  to  have  two  more 
typewritten.  However,  I  couldn't  pretend  she 
was  dear,  and  I  paid  and  looked  pleasant.  Guile- 
lessly, I  imagined  my  expenses  were  over. 

"Sonny,  they  were  just  beginning!  Miss 
Beck's  bill  was  only  the  preface.  A  man  who 
knew  the  ropes  told  me  I  should  be  a  fool  to  have 
the  scrip  hawked  about  before  it  had  been  copy- 
righted. 'How  do  you  do  it?'  I  said.  'Oh,'  he 
said,  'it's  very  easy.  You  give  a  private  perform- 
ance of  the  piece  in  a  building  licensed  for  public 


54)      THE  IVIAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

entertainments.  There  are  a  few  details  to  be 
observed.'  When  I  grasped  the  details  I  knew  I 
had  committed  a  reckless  extravagance  in  writing 
a  play.  I  examined  my  belongings,  and  doubted 
if  they  would  run  to  luxuries  like  this.  Still  I 
had  constructed  the  monster,  and  it  had  its 
claims.    I  did  my  duty  by  it. 

"I  hired  a  hall  in  Walthamstow  for  an  after- 
noon. I  invented  two  columns  of  Fashions  for 
Men  to  pay  for  the  hall  in  Walthamstow.  Whip- 
ping a  tired  brain,  I  invented  them — and  then 
they  fetched  eighteenpence  short  of  the  rent.  I 
posted  one  of  the  nice,  clean  copies  of  the  mon- 
ster to  the  Lord  Chamberlain  to  read.  I  didn't 
want  him  to  read  it — especially  since  I  had  learnt 
the  compliment  was  to  cost  me  guineas — but  that 
was  one  of  the  'details  to  be  observed.'  I  had  to 
pawn  my  watch  for  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  And 
he  didn't  even  send  the  nice  clean  copy  back — - 
he  buried  it  in  archives.  More  typewriting  ex- 
penses !  After  that  I  had  to  have  the  parts  type- 
written. My  dress  clothes  paid  for  the  parts. 
Then  I  had  to  advertise  for  artists  to  read  them. 
I  got  my  'artists'  cheap — a  half-crown  a  head, 
but  my  watch-chain  went  after  my  watch,  and 
the  monster  began  to  attack  my  library.  'Any 
more  "details"?'  I  asked.  'One  or  two,'  said  the 
man ;  'you  must  have  a  couple  of  playbills  print- 


FRANKENSTEIN  II  5^ 

ed,  and  don't  forget  to  register  your  title.'  Well, 
I  won't  dwell  on  the  drinks,  but  by  the  time  I 
was  through  with  the  Walthamstow  hall,  and 
Stationers'  Hall,  the  monster  had  left  nothing 
in  my  wardrobe  except  a  mackintosh,  and  had 
consumed  a  complete  set  of  Thackeray  bound  in 
calf!" 

Orlando  groaned  again,  and  I  murmured  sym- 
pathy. I  also  reminded  him  that  the  second  act 
must  be  drawing  near. 

"AU  right!"  he  said  testily.  "Listen.  The 
monster  was  now  my  legal  property — it  was 
about  the  only  property  I  did  have  now,  but  any- 
how, the  monster  was  mine.  I  was  informed  that 
an  official  licence  for  it  would  reach  me  in  due 
course.  Admire  my  next  move  I  An  average  in- 
tellect might  have  been  shattered  by  the  sacri- 
fices I  had  made  for  the  beast;  I  was  still  bril- 
liant. Did  I  send  the  thing  to  a  theatre  unin- 
vited and  wait  six  months  to  see  it  expelled?  Not 
Orlando!  I  reahsed  that  I  was  an  outsider.  I 
realised  that  I  needed  someone  to  take  me  in. 
Elsie  Millar  was  playing  at  the  St.  James's  then. 
She  had  never  heard  of  me,  but  I  wrote  to  her; 
I  said  I  had  written  a  comedy  with  her  in  my 
mind,  and  that  I'd  like  her  to  read  it  before  I 
offered  it  to  a  management." 

"What  for?" 


m      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"'What  for'?  Because  I  thought  she  might 
be  so  enamoured  of  her  part  that  she'd  move 
mountains  to  get  the  piece  produced." 

"My  proHx  friend,"  I  said,  "I  perfectly  un- 
derstand your  inward  reason;  but  what  was  the 
reason  you  gave  to  the  lady?" 

"Oh!"  said  Orlando,  "I  borrowed  from  a  let- 
ter that  I  once  knew  an  actress  receive  from  a 
full-blown  dramatist;  I  wrote  that  I  was  'desir- 
ous of  hearing  whether  she  would  care  to  play 
the  part  if  an  opportunity  arose.'    Suggestive?" 

"For  an  amateur  who  had  never  been  through 
a  stage-door  it  was  consummate  impudence,"  I 
admitted.    "And  she  replied?" 

"She  replied  that  she  would  be  pleased  to  read 
the  piece  if  I  sent  it  to  her  private  address.  It 
departed  to  her,  registered,  the  same  day.  And 
I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  interrupting  me!  .  .  . 
Well,  a  fortnight  went  by,  a  fortnight  of  sus- 
pense that  I  can't  describe  to  you." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  describe  it !"  I  exclaimed. 
"For  heaven's  sake,  remember  that  the  act'll  be 
starting  directly.  I'll  describe  your  feelings 
when  I  write  the  story." 

"If  you  don't  write  it  better  than  you  listen  to 
it,  there's  a  poor  show  of  a  cheque,"  he  com- 
plained.   "I  say  a  fortnight  went  by.    Then  she 


FRANKENSTEIN  II  57 

wrote  that  she  had  i  ead  my  comedy  and  was  'de- 
lighted with  it.'  Look  here!  if  you  don't  under- 
take not  to  speak  another  word  till  I've  finished, 
I  shan't  tell  you  any  more.    Is  it  understood?" 

I  nodded.  And  for  a  speU  Orlando  had  it  all 
his  own  way. 

"She  WTote  that  she  was  'delighted  with  it/ 
and  asked  me  to  call  on  her  one  dav  about  half- 
past  four.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes. 
Really,  it  looked  as  if  the  monster's  rancour  had 
worn  itself  out.  I  felt  tender  towards  the  beast 
again,  my  affection  revived.  I  said  that  it  was 
like  a  monster  in  a  fairy  tale,  transformed  to  a 
benevolent  presence  by  the  heroine.  I  thought 
that  a  pretty  idea;  I  hoped  I  should  get  a  chance 
to  mention  it  to  Miss  Millar  when  I  went. 

"Of  course,  I  meant  to  go  the  next  afternoon — 
weather  permitting — and  I  was  so  eager  to  see 
what  sort  of  weather  it  was  in  the  morning  that  I 
trembled  when  I  pulled  u])  the  blind.  Thank 
Heaven!  it  was  rairiing.  I  breakfasted  grate- 
fully, and  my  only  fear  was  that  the  sun  might 
come  out  later  on.  Fortunately  it  didn't.  The 
drizzle  continued,  and  all  was  well.  Bv  vour 
idiotic  expression  it's  evident  you've  forgotten 
that  the  only  decent  garment  remaining  to  me 
was  a  mackintosh.     ]My  suit  was   socially  im- 


58      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

possible ;  if  it  had  been  a  fine  day  I  couldn't  have 
gone. 

"She  lives  with  her  mother  in  a  top  flat  in  Chel- 
sea. When  I  was  shown  in,  she  was  alone.  Her 
voice  was  just  as  sweet  as  it  was  on  the  stage. 
She  isn't  a  bit  like  anv  other  actress  I've  met; 
she  talks  rather  slowly,  and  she's  very  quiet. 
Even  when  she  enthused  about  the  piece  she 
spoke  quietly. 

"  'I  think  it's  beautiful,'  she  said.  'I'm  glad 
I  asked  you  to  let  me  read  it.  I  nearly  didn't, 
because ' 

"  'Because  you  didn't  know  my  name?'  I  said. 

"  'Well,  yes,'  she  said.  'So  many  people  write 
to  one,  and  their  pieces  are  generally  so  impos- 
sible.   Is  this  your  first,  Mr.  Lightfoot?' 

"  'My  first,  and  it  has  threatened  to  be  my  last,' 
I  said.  'I've  been  copyrighting  it,  and  the  com- 
plications have  nearly  ruined  me.  I  had  begun 
to  feel  myself  another  Frankenstein  with  a  mon- 
ster— and  then  you  turned  the  monster  into  a 
prince  of  light,  like  Beauty  in  the  fairy  tale.' 

"It  didn't  'go'  so  well  as  I  had  expected,  but 
she  smiled  a  little.  'You'll  let  me  give  you  some 
tea?'  she  said.  'Won't  you  take  off  your  mack- 
intosh?' 

"  'No,  thanks,'  I  said;  'it  isn't  very  wet.' 

"Then  we  had  tea  and  cake,  and  got  a  bit  for- 


FRANKENSTEIN  II  59 

rader.  She  said  she  wished  she  had  a  theatre  to 
produce  the  thing,  and  I  said  I  wished  I  had  an 
agent  to  place  it  for  me.  She  asked  me  if  I'd  like 
her  to  show  it  to  Alexander,  and  I  said  the  Eng- 
lish language  would  be  inadequate  to  express  the 
gratitude  I'd  feel.  Of  course,  I  added,  she 
mustn't  do  all  that  for  nothing,  and  she  said  she'd 
find  it  reward  enough  to  play  the  part.  I  said 
'Pickles!'  then,  quite  naturally,  because  she  was 
an  exceedingly  nice  girl,  and  I  liked  her.  I  told 
her  she  should  have  any  share  of  the  fees  she 
chose  to  ask  for.  'Oh,  nonsense!'  she  said.  'No, 
it  isn't  nonsense!'  I  said;  'it's  only  fair.'  'Oh, 
well,  then,'  she  said,  'if  I  get  the  piece  done  for 
you  anywhere,  you  shall  give  me  the  usual  agent's 
commission.  Does  that  satisfy  you?'  We  were 
talking  quite  chummily  by  this  time.  And  I 
had  another  cup  of  tea. 

"Before  I  went,  her  mother  came  in.  Her 
mother  didn't  treat  the  commission  so  airily — her 
mother  wanted  the  girl  to  have  a  contract.  But 
that  was  all  right ;  I  put  it  on  paper  for  her  when 
I  got  home. 

"There  was  nothing  for  me  to  see  her  about 
again  for  two  or  three  months.  I  had  heard 
from  her  that  Alexander  had  no  use  for  the  piece, 
and  that  'Sir  Charles  Wyndham  had  promised  to 
read  it  on  Sunday.'    Then  she  wrote  that  she  was 


60      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

going  on  tour — and  I  called  to  say  good-bye  to 
her.  There  wasn't  a  cloud  in  the  heavens,  and 
I  was  still  dependent  on  the  mackintosh,  but  it 
couldn't  be  helped.  I  stayed  longer  that  time. 
I  could  have  stayed  to  supper  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  mackintosh ! 

"Of  course  she  went  on  working  at  the  business 
while  she  was  away,  and  she  used  to  write  me 
what  she  was  doing  about  it.  She  was  a  regular 
trump,  and  I  liked  getting  her  letters  and  an- 
swering them,  though  the  prospects  never  came 
to  anything.  At  last  she  wrote  that  she  was  com- 
ing back — and  I  called  to  say  'how  do  you  do'  to 
her.  It  still  hadn't  run  to  a  new  suit,  and — I 
attribute  a  great  deal  to  that  mackintosh !  it  cur- 
tailed all  my  visits,  I  haven't  had  a  fair  chance 
with  the  girl. 

"I  had  never  loved  before — so  quickly;  I  was 
fond  of  her  already.  I  hope,  when  you  write  the 
story,  you'll  bring  her  charm  out  strong;  you  had 
better  send  the  manuscript  to  me,  and  I'll  put  in 
some  of  the  things  she  has  said — loyal,  womanly 
things,  without  any  grease  paint  on  'em.  As  I 
sat  there  that  afternoon,  sweltering  in  the  infer- 
nal mackintosh,  I  knew  I'd  like  to  marry  her; 
I  knew  that  if  the  comedy  ever  caught  on,  I'd 
try  to  make  my  agent  my  wife. 

"Well,  when  a  production  looked  as  far  off  as 


FRANKENSTEIN  II  61 

Klondyke,  there  came  this  offer  for  the  piece 
from  Cameron,  who  had  just  taken  the  Throne. 
She  was  as  excited  about  it  as  I  was. 

*'  'The  Throne  isn't  quite  the  house  I'd  have 
chosen,'  she  said,  'but  you'll  get  a  beautiful  cast; 
Cameron  will  take  pains  with  the  smallest  detail, 

you'll   be   pleased  with   everything Oh!    I 

mustn't  answer  for  your  leading  lady.' 

"I  laughed.  There  was  no  need  for  me  to  tell 
her  I  had  faith  in  my  leading  lady. 

"  'You  have  given  me  a  chance!'  she  said.  'It'll 
be  the  best  part  I  ever  played.  If  this  engage- 
ment makes  me,  I  shall  owe  it  to  you'  There 
was  one  of  the  things  without  any  grease  paint 
on  'em.  Wasn't  it  sweet?  She'd  have  had  every 
excuse  for  reminding  me  all  the  time  what  a  serv- 
ice she  had  done  me. 

"We  talked  it  over  like  pals.  She  said  that, 
of  course,  Cameron  would  play  the  Colonel  him- 
self, and  that  he  wanted  to  get  Fairfax  for  the 
lover. 

"  'Who's  Fairfax?'  I  said;  'I  don't  know  him. 
The  lover  is  an  important  part — all  that  pretty 
scene  of  yours  in  the  Orchard  Act  will  go  for 
nothing  if  your  lover's  not  good.' 

"  'Oh,  Fairfax  is  a  very  clever  young  actor!' 
she  said ;  'we've  never  played  together,  but  he  has 


62      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

just  made  a  great  hit  at  the  Imperial;  I  saw  him 
there;  he  was  very  good  indeed.' 

"Well,  things  couldn't  have  looked  more  prom- 
ising. Cameron  was  enthusiastic — ^he  didn't  pay 
any  money  on  account,  but  he  gave  me  a  cigar — 
the  percentage  he  agreed  to  was  satisfactory,  and 
the  girl  I  loved  considered  me  her  benefactor. 
Making  a  discount  for  disappointment,  I  hoped 
for  a  hundred  a  week  from  the  Throne;  besides 
that,  there' d  be  the  provincial  tours,  and  there 
were  the  American  and  Colonial  rights.  I  had 
visions  of  a  house  in  Sloane  Street,  and  a  motor 
car. 

"Then  the  expenses  began  again.  I  couldn't 
attend  daily  rehearsals  through  August  in  the 
mackintosh,  so  I  managed  to  raise  a  pony  on  the 
agreement.  The  interest  was  iniquitous,  but  I 
was  bound  to  have  decent  clothes,  and  on  the 
threshold  of  a  fortune  I  didn't  fuss.  I  went  to 
a  tailor,  and  I  bought  a  two-guinea  panama,  and 
had  eighteen  pounds  left. 

"Fairfax  turned  out  to  be  a  plain  young  man 
with  a  big  head,  and  I  didn't  think  so  much  of  his 
reading  as  Miss  Millar  seemed  to  do.  However, 
he  improved.  She,  of  course,  was  divine,  and 
Cameron  was  all  right.  On  the  whole,  I  was  sat- 
isfied with  the  rehearsals — dramatically;  finan- 
cially they  were  a  shock.    The  luncheon  adjourn- 


FRANKENSTEIN  II  6^ 

merits  upset  mj^  calculations.  I  always  had  to  ad- 
journ with  Cameron — though  I'd  rather  have 
taken  Miss  Millar — and  Cameron  lunched  ex- 
tensively. If  a  man  stands  you  Bollinger  one 
day,  you  can't  offer  him  Bass  the  next.  I  had 
expected  to  enjoy  the  rehearsals,  but  the  eighteen 
pounds  were  vanishing  at  such  a  rate  that  I 
thanked  Providence  when  the  last  week  came. 

"Well,  by  dint  of  missing  a  rehearsal  or  two,  I 
had  contrived  to  cling  to  a  fiver;  and  I  shook 
hands  with  myself.  I  counted  on  it  to  keep  me 
going  till  I  got  the  first  fees.  Vain  dream!  They 
decided  to  'try  the  piece'  in  Worthing  for  three 
nights — and  I  had  to  pay  fares  and  an  hotel  bill  I 
Old  chap,  when  I  walked  here  to  the  Throne,  on 
the  night  of  the  London  production,  I  possessed 
onr  shilling — and  that  went  on  a  drink  for  the 
acting  manager.  In  the  morning  I  hadn't  the 
means  to  buy  newspapers  with  the  notices  of  my 
own  play.  Penniless,  I  read  them  in  a  public 
library  among  the  Unemployed! 

"Of  course,  the  notices  bucked  me  up.  With 
an  'emphatic  success,'  I  could  smile  at  being 
stone-broke  till  the  hundred  a  week  came  in.  But 
it  didn't  come.  The  box-office  sheets  gave  me  the 
cold  shivers  when  I  saw  them,  and  the  queues 
at  the  pit  and  gallery  doors  were  so  short  that  the 
'niggers'  gave  up  playing  outside.      The  piece 


64      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

always  went  very  well,  but  there  was  never  any 
money  in  the  house ;  the  audience  always  looked 
very  nice,  but  none  of  them  had  ever  paid.  They 
look  very  nice  this  evening,  don't  they?  Paper! 
Paper  in  rows!    Paper  in  reams! 

"A  hundred  a  week?  By  the  first  Saturday 
night  I  reckoned  my  week's  royalties  would 
about  cover  the  cost  of  my  Worthing  trip !  And 
then  I  was  optimistic. 

"Cameron  sent  for  me;  he  said: 

"  'I'm  afraid  I  must  take  this  piece  off  at 
once.' 

"The  dressing-room  reeled.  I  muttered  that 
the  notices  had  been  good. 

"  'It's  more  than  the  business  is.  Look  at  the 
booking!'  he  said. 

"I  hinted  feebly  that  the  best  people  hadn't 
come  back  to  town  yet. 

"He  said,  'Well,  I'll  give  it  a  chance  to  pick 
up  if  in  the  meantime  you  like  to  waive  fees.' 

"I  waived!  I  heard  him  in  a  kind  of  stupor. 
.  .  .  I've  never  had  a  bob !" 

Orlando  paused ;  his  head  drooped  sadly.  I  as- 
certained that  the  barmaids  weren't  looking,  and 
pressed  his  hand. 

"It's  hard  lines,"  I  said.    "We  must  have  an- 


FRANKENSTEIN  II  65 

other  talk  after  the  show.  You  won't  mind  my 
bolting  now?  The  bell  rang  ever  so  long  ago; 
the  second  act  must  be  half  over." 

"A  curse  upon  the  second  act!"  he  burst  out. 
*'Why  did  I  ever  write  the  second  act?  Don't 
see  it!" 

"But  I  must  see  it,"  I  urged.  *'I  want  to  see 
it.    What's  the  matter  with  it?" 

The  dramatist  was  silent  again;  I  saw  that  he 
was  struggling  with  strong  emotion.  At  last  he 
said  in  a  low  voice; 

"The  rest  of  the  story — so  far  as  it  has  gone — 
is  more  painful  still.  Perhaps  you  suppose  that, 
now  it  had  stripped  me  of  all  and  involved  me 
in  the  meshes  of  a  money-lender,  the  monster's 
malignity  was  appeased?  Not  so!  Pecuniarily 
it  could  harm  me  no  more,  but  through  my  af- 
fections I  was  still  vulnerable;  the  monster's  most 
insidious  injury  you've  yet  to  hear. 

"I  noticed  durinfr  the  rehearsals  that  Fairfax 
was  struck  with  Miss  Millar;  and  lately  Miss 
Millar  has  shown  an  unaccountable  interest  in  the 
big-headed  Fairfax.  I  call  it  'unaccountable' 
because  Fairfax,  in  his  proper  person,  can't  be 
said  to  account  for  it.  She's  always  saying  how 
'tender  he  is  in  the  part.'  The  part's  tender! 
I  own  the  man  can  act,  but  I  gave  him  the  lines 


m     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

to  speak!  I  invented  the  tender  things  for  him 
to  do.     She  doesn't  remember  that. 

"Consider  what  happened  when  I  wrote  the 
piece !  I  imagined  a  charming  girl  in  an  orchard ; 
I  imagined  myself  in  love  with  her.  She  had 
Elsie  Millar's  face;  she  answered  me  with  Elsie 
Millar's  voice.  With  all  the  tenderness,  all  the 
wit,  all  the  fancy  I  could  command  I  tried  to 
make  this  charming  girl  fond  of  me.  Materially, 
I  was  producing  half  a  dozen  pages  of  dialogue ; 
psychologically,  I  was  lending  my  own  character 
to  any  man  who  played  the  lover's  part. 

"It  fell  to  Fairfax— and  it's  all  'Fairfax'  with 
her.  Oh,  she  has  been  very  sympathetic  about 
my  failure,  we're  still  friends,  but — there's  an- 
other man  now !  She  talks  more  of  his  perform- 
ance than  of  my  comedy.  It's  natural,  I  sup- 
pose— she  understands  his  work  better  than  mine 
— but  I  desert  the  second  act;  you  shan't  see  the 
second  act,  the  second  act's  the  other  man's 
glamour  to  her!  She's  falling  in  love  with  the 
part,  and  thinks  it's  with  him.  The  monster  gave 
him  his  opportunity — and  he^s  stealing  her  from 
me  with  my  own  words'/' 

"Talk  to  her  as  you've  talked  to  me,"  I  said, 
"and  hope  still." 

"I  can't  help  hoping,"  he  answered,  "but " 


FRANKENSTEIN  II  67 

An  attendant  entered  the  buffet  with  a  note: 
"Mr.  Lightfoot,  sir?" 

Orlando  tore  it  open — and  passed  it  to  me 
mutely.     I  read: 

"Deae  Mr.  Lightfoot, — I  hear  you  are  in 
front  to-night.  I've  been  waiting  to  tell  you 
something  all  the  week.  Mr.  Fairfax  and  I  are 
engaged  to  be  married — and  we  owe  our  happi- 
ness to  your  play.  Will  you  come  round  after- 
wards to  let  us  thank  you? — Yours  always  sin- 
cerely, "Elsie  Millar." 

"Poor  devil!"  I  exclaimed.  .  .  .  "Well,  the 
monster  has  finished  with  you  now,  at  any  ratel 
You  know  that  you're  disappointed  in  love,  and 
you  know  that  the  last  of  the  expenses  is  over." 

"Y-e-s,"  he  said.  .  .  .  "You  think  your  editor 
mil  send  a  cheque  for  the  story?" 

"In  overdue  course,"  I  told  him.    "Why?" 

"Well,"  he  moaned,  "how  am  I  to  find  the 
money  to  buy  her  a  wedding  present?" 


THE  TALE  THAT  WOULDN'T  DO 

"I  CAN  tell  what's  the  matter  with  you''  said 
the  Bachelor  Girl.  "You've  got  a  story  to 
write!" 

I  had  merely  shaken  hands  with  her,  put  down 
my  hat,  and  chosen  a  chair  by  the  fire ;  so  I  was 
surprised. 

"My  dear  Sherlock  Hohnes!"  I  exclaimed, 
"this  is  wonderful.  Accustomed  as  I  am  to  your 
offensive  society,  I  must  own  that  I  fail  to 
see " 

"Nothing  could  be  plainer,  my  poor  Watson," 
she  returned;  "I  have  observed  that  you  never 
look  so  unhappy  as  when  you  have  to  do  any 
work." 

Like  all  her  deductions,  the  thing  was  marvel- 
lously simple  when  she  explained  it. 

Her  baptismal  name  is  "Patricia."  She  is  an 
extraordinarily  nice  girl,  with  seventeen  faces. 
She  changes  them  while  she  talks.  There  are, 
her  moody  face  that  is  almost  ugly,  and  her 
hopeless  face  with  tragedy  in  it,  and  her  radiant 
face  that's  bewildering — and  the  fourteen  others. 

68 


THE  TALE  THAT  WOULDN'T  DO         69 

If  she  didn't  laugh  at  orange  blossoms,  you  might 
approve  her. 

"Well,  it's  quite  true,"  I  answered;  "I  huve  a 
story  to  write — or,  rather,  I  haven't  a  story,  and 
I'm  obliged  to  write  one.  I  want  to  find  a  story 
about  love;  something  piquant  and  yet  tender, 
with " 

"Egj^ptian  or  American?"  she  asked  sharply, 
passing  the  cigarettes. 

"American,"  I  said,  "but  it  won't  prevent  my 
going  on.  Something  piquant  and  yet  tender, 
with  a  note  of  pathos,  and  a  vein  of  sentiment, 
and " 

"Columns  of  drivel!"  she  put  in.  "What  do 
you  mean  by  coming  here  on  a  wet  day  and 
babbling  about  sentiment?  Don't  you  know  how 
ill  it  always  makes  me?  Now,  never  mind  your 
story;  be  a  good  fellow  and  cheer  me  up;  I 
haven't  met  a  man  for  a  month.'* 

'^'r7n  not  a  'man' — I'm  married,"  I  mentioned. 

"And  don't  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  Chiffon 
Girl,  or  we  shall  fall  out.  Think  I  want  you  to 
flirt  with  me?" 

"I  have  no  illusions  left.  Besides,  I  don't 
believe  you  could  manage  to  flirt.  Did  you  ever 
try?" 

"Once." 

"You  don't  say  so!    Was  it  a  success?" 


70     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Tremendous."  She  nodded.  "Biggest  jb^ke 
you  ever  heard." 

"Really?"  I  said.  "Don't  get  up  to  make  the 
tea,  then.  Keep  where  you  are,  and  tell  me 
about  it." 

So  she  crossed  her  feet  on  the  fender  and  told 
me. 

"There  was  somebody  I  knew,"  she  said — 
"Bob.     That  wasn't  his  name  really,  but " 

"We  can  let  him  go  at  'Bob,'  "  I  agreed; 
"there's  no  need  to  give  him  away." 

"I  was  only  a  kid — about  nineteen — just  be- 
ginning to  paint.  You  wouldn't  have  known  me 
in  those  days;  I  was  'utter' — intensely  'utter' — ■ 
to  look  at;  I  used  to  flop,  like  the  Burne- Jones 
things ;  I  wore  garments,  and  my  hair  so!"  She 
showed  me  her  comedy  face,  one  of  the  "four- 
teen others."  "He  said  I  was  a  good  fellow 
when  one  found  me  out,  and  told  me  not  to  make 
a  guy  of  myself.  I'd  have  boxed  anybody  else's 
ears,  but  I  liked  Dick." 

"We  re-christened  him  'Bob,'  "  I  reminded  her. 

"Oh,  yes.  Well,  I've  let  it  slip  now.  It 
doesn't  matter — it  was  no  one  you  know.  He 
said  my  clothes  and  my  slang  didn't  harmonise, 
and  that  I  was  bound  to  change  one  or  the  other. 
I  couldn't  change  my  slang,  so  I  bought  a  human 
frock,  and  he  sent  me  a  hundred  Nestors  as  'A 


THE  TALE  THAT  WOULDN'T  DO         71 

Present  for  a  Good  Child.'  Don't  run  away  with 
the  idea  that  I  was  sentimental  about  him;  we 
were  chums.  He  used  to  say  the  reason  he  took 
to  me  was  that  I  wasn't  silly  like  a  girl ;  he  used 
to  say  I  was  the  best  pal  he  had.  He  was  only 
two  or  three  and  twenty — younger  than  /  was, 
in  some  ways.  .  .  .  The  poker's  your  side — stir 
the  fire! 

"Yes,  we  were  awfully  good  pals  for  years. 
When  he  went  to  work  in  Paris — did  I  tell  you 
he  was  an  artist? — when  he  went  to  work  in 
Paris,  I  could  have  howled  with  loneliness.  I 
was  so  dull!  I  didn't  seem  to  have  anybody  to 
say  my  best  things  to.  Have  you  ever  missed 
anyone  like  that?  Something  funny  would  come 
into  my  mind,  and  I'd  wish  I  could  say  it  to  him; 
I'd  think,  'Wouldn't  it  be  lovely  to  be  saying  it 
to  Dick!'  Don't  you  know  the  feeling?  I  don't 
think  I  was  ever  so  near  to  howling  as  when  I'd 
thought  of  something  funny.  ...  I  hope  you  do 
understand  that  I  wasn't  sentimental?  If  you 
fancy  I  felt  anything  but  friendshij)  for  him,  I 
shan't  tell  you  any  more." 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  I  said. 

*'0f  course,  we  wrote  to  each  other.  But  I 
was  never  good  at  letters — and,  anyhow,  what's 
the  use  of  saying  funny  things  if  you  can't  hear 
the  man  laugh  ?    He  was  away  about  a  year.    He 


72     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

had  meant  to  stay  for  two  or  three,  but  one  day- 
he  wrote  that  he  was  coming  home  sooner  than 
he  had  expected.  He  turned  up  the  next  after- 
noon; and  it  was  'Dick!'  and  'Pat!'  and  'Well,  it 
is  good  to  see  you  again !'  You  know !  The  first 
few  minutes  were  jolly.  Then  I  saw  that  he  was 
keeping  something  back. 

"I  said,  'What  you're  going  to  do,  is  to  sit 
down  there  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  You're  in 
trouble,  and  I  want  to  hear.' 

"'What  a  brick  you  are!'  he  exclaimed — a 
man's  always  astonished  when  you  notice  any- 
thing that's  as  plain  as  a  pillar-box;  a  woman 
would  have  been  waiting  for  me  to  say  it  from 
the  moment  she  came  into  the  room. 

"  'Is  it  money?'  I  said. 

"  'Well,  in  a  way,'  he  said,  'it  is  money.' 

"He  had  a  small  income  from  somewhere  or 
other,  but  I  had  known  him  hard  up  for  a  thick 
'un,  and  I  thought  perhaps  I  might  be  of  use. 
I  could  have  lent  him  a  fiver  just  then  without 
any  bother,  as  it  happened ;  so  I  asked  him  how 
much  he  wanted. 

"  'About  a  thousand  a  year,'  he  answered. 

"Well,  that  told  me  everything  and  I 
couldn't  speak  for  a  second.  He  was  only  my 
friend,  but  he  was  such  a  dear,  good  friend,  and 


THE  TALE  THAT  WOULDN'T  DO         73 

I  knew  it  would  never  be  the  same  thing  between 
us  any  more.  .  .  . 

"'Who  is  she?' I  said. 

"That  started  him,  and  he  gave  me  a  catalogue 
of  her  fascinations  that  made  me  tired.  She  was 
a  Chiffon  Girl.  She  had  gone  over  to  Paris  with 
his  sister,  and  been  taken  to  see  Dick's  studio. 
Tea  and  twaddle ! — he  admitted  she  didn't  know 
anything  about  art.  'Girlish,'  he  called  her;  I 
could  imagine  her  in  the  studio — saying  an  art- 
ist's work  must  be  'such  fun/  and  calling  every 
picture  'sweet' I 

"By  what  he  said,  it  seemed  to  me  she  was 
treating  him  pretty  badly,  for  all  she  was  so 
'girhsh.'  She  wasn't  satisfied  to  accept  him,  and 
she  wasn't  satisfied  to  let  him  go.  Didn't  want 
to  marry  a  poor  man,  but  didn't  want  to  lose  his 
admiration.  For  the  last  six  months  he  seemed 
to  have  been  always  bidding  her  an  eternal  fare- 
well, and  getting  a  note  from  her  about  nothing 
a  week  afterwards.  She  was  back  in  London 
now — that  was  why  he  was  here.  His  gush  about 
her  gave  me  a  headache. 

"  'It's  a  treat  to  be  able  to  talk  it  over  with 
you,  Pat,'  he  said. 

"'Yes,'  I  said— 'ripping!' 

"He  wanted  to  know  if  I  thought  she  liked 
him. 


74!     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Well,  it  was  clear  she  liked  him,  though 
whether  she  liked  him  enough  to  live  in  a  fifth- 
floor  flat  in  West  Kensington  I  had  my  doubts. 
But  she  wasn't  nearly  good  enough  for  him,  that 
was  the  main  thing.    I  said: 

"  'Even  if  she'll  have  you,  are  you  sure  that 
you're  wise  to  go  in  for  marriage  yet?  Don't 
think  I'm  speaking  selfishly,  old  man;  we  shall 
never  forget  we  were  pals,  you  and  I,  and  I'll 
drop  in  sometimes  after  you're  married  and 
smoke  a  cigarette  with  you — if  your  wife  will 
have  me — just  the  same.  It's  you  I'm  thinking 
of — your  own  happiness.  We've  both  such  real 
pals,  Dick — I  know  I  may  talk  frankly  to  you: 
won't  you  be  hampering  your  work?  Won't  you 
have  to  sink  your  ideals,  and  paint  "The  New 
Kitchens"  and  "Baby's  First  Rattle"  to  make 
the  pot  boil?  Are  you  sure  the  game's  worth  the 
chandler's  shop  ?  Girls  are  good  fun  at  a  dance, 
or  to  flirt  with  up  the  river,  but  to  settle  down 
with  one  of  them  for  life,  dear  boy! — a  fellow's 
got  to  reckon  up  the  cost!' 

"Of  course,  he  wouldn't  listen — told  me  I  was 
a  confirmed  Bachelor  Girl  and  couldn't  under- 
stand. 

"  'If  you'd  ever  been  fond  of  anybody  your- 
self,' he  said,  'you'd  know  that,  when  one  really 
loves,  nothing  else  matters.     I  don't  mind  what 


THE  TALE  THAT  WOULDN'T  DO        75 

I  "sink,"  I  don't  mind  the  cost;  I  want  Rosie — 
she's  worth  all  the  pictures  in  the  world.' 

"  'Sh!'  I  said,  'don't  blaspheme!  And  dear  old 
chap,  don't  think  I'm.  unsjTnpathetic — you  asked 
me  for  advice,  and  I  gave  it  to  you  honestly, 
that's  all.' 

"  'You  were  always  a  good  sort,  Pat,'  he  said. 
'But  I  didn't  ask  you  for  adidce — I  asked  you 
if  you  thought  she  liked  me.' 

"  'Oh,  as  far  as  that  goes,'  I  said,  'I  dare  say 
you  could  marry  her  if  you  went  the  right  way 
about  it.' 

"You  should  have  seen  him  jump!    'How?' 

"'So  now  you  are  asking  me  for  advice!'  I 
said.  'Well,  don't  make  yourself  so  cheap,  Dick.' 
( It  was  horrid  to  have  to  tell  Dick  he  had  'made 
himself  cheap';  I  hated  her  for  it;  but  it  was 
true.)  'You've  run  back  to  her  every  time  she 
lifted  a  finger.  Show  her  you  mean  what  you 
say.  You  can  offer  her  a  home — of  a  kind — 
and  you've  got  a  future,  if  you  don't  let  circum- 
stances spoil  it.  Very  well,  then.  Tell  her  she's 
got  to  marry  you,  or  say  "good-bye"  to  you  once 
and  for  all.' 

"He  answered  that  he  had  told  her  so. 

"'Yes,'  I  said,  'repeatedly!  But  tell  her  so, 
and  stick  to  what  you  say.     The  next  time  she 


76     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

whistles,  don't  go.  She'll  like  you  twice  as  much 
for  it.' 

"I  think  it  surprised  him  to  find  that  I  under- 
stood anything  about  girls ;  but  I  was  a  girl  my- 
self, though  he  didn't  seem  to  remember  it. 

"He  cheered  up  wonderfully  after  that. 
Funny  my  coaching  him  how  to  win  her  when  I 
didn't  want  him  to,  wasn't  it?  But  he  trusted 
me,  and  I  was  bound  to  play  straight  with  him: 
I  should  have  been  a  cad  if  I  hadn't  played 
straight  with  him  when  he  was  trusting  me.  Still, 
it  was  funny,  you  know — it  makes  me  laugh 
whenever  I  think  of  it." 

I  detected  no  amusement  in  her  voice.  She 
paused  a  moment. 

"He  dropped  in  a  few  days  afterwards,"  she 
went  on,  "and  told  me  he  had  done  it.  He  told 
me  she  had  said  she  liked  him  very  much,  but 
didn't  want  to  marry;  and  that  he  had  v^dshed 
her  'good-bye.' 

"  'Don't  "come  down"  in  a  hurry  this  time,' 
I  said ;  'when  you  hear  from  her  next  week,  send 
her  a  few  civil  lines,  and  sit  tight.' 

"Of  course  he  did  hear  from  her — congratu- 
lating him  on  getting  into  the  Academy,  and  say- 
ing she  was  going  to  see  his  picture  on  Monday 
afternoon.  And  when  my  lady  went,  he  wasn't 
there.     One  to  Dick! 


THE  TALE  THAT  WOULDN'T  DO         77 

"It  was  a  black  Monday  for  me,  though — I 
had  nothing  but  'Rosie'  all  day  long! 

"And  that  was  only  the  beginning  of  it.  She 
didn't  make  another  move  for  two  or  tliree 
months,  and  he  thought  he  had  lost  her.  He 
weakened  then.  He  told  me  he  used  to  tramp 
the  room,  thinking,  half  the  night.  His  sister 
and  I  were  the  only  people  who  knew — and  his 
sister  had  gone  to  Pangbourne,  so  I  got  it  all. 
Rather  rough  on  me!  But  I  was  awfully  sorry 
for  him — I  was  sorry  for  him!  His  eyes  in  the 
morning ! 

"Then  the  girl  made  another  step — she  fished 
for  an  invitation  to  spend  a  week  at  Pangbourne. 
By  that  time  he  was  in  such  a  fever  that  he 
wanted  to  propose  to  her  again  as  soon  as  she 
arrived,  but  his  sister  said  'No' ;  she  said  the  best 
thing  he  could  do  was  to  make  the  girl  fancy  he 
was  getting  over  it.  I  don't  know  how  much 
trouble  she  had  with  him,  but  she  rubbed  her  idea 
in  pretty  thoroughly,  for  he  came  and  asked  me 
to  help  him. 

"He  said,  'Alice  thinks' — Alice  was  his  sister's 
name;  he  said,  'Alice  thinks  I  ought  to  be  down 
there  when  Rosie  comes,  and  pretend  I  don't 
mind  any  more.' 

"  'If  you  go  at  all,'  I  said,  *that  is  what  you 
ought  to  do  at  first.* 


78      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"He  said,  'She  thinks  if  Kosie  once  saw  me 
making  up  to  somebody  else,  it'd  be  all  right.' 

"  'Well,  I  always  told  j^ou  that  you  had  let 
her  feel  too  sure  of  you,'  I  said. 

"  'The  only  thing  is,'  he  said,  'there's  no  other 
girl  there.  Will  you  come  down  and  see  me 
through,  Pat?' 

"I  did  flare  out  then!  To  ask  me  to — I  mean 
it  did  seem Well,  it  was  a  little  too  much ! 

"He  was  all  apologies  in  a  minute.  I  never 
saw  a  man  so  taken  aback  in  all  mv  life.  'No 
idea  of  offending  me — I  had  been  such  a  pal  that 
he  didn't  imagine  I'd  cut  up  rough.'  Said  he 
had  asked  me  as  he  might  have  asked  Alice,  only 
as  Alice  was  his  sister  she'd  be  no  use.  He  kept 
saying  how  sorry  he  was  to  have  annoyed  me — 
and  looked  amazed! 

"Well,  in  the  end  I  said  I'd  go.  If  you  had 
heard  him  you'd  understand — it  was  such  a  trifle, 
in  the  way  he  put  it,  and  it  seemed  so  strange 
of  me  to  make  a  fuss.  'Oh,'  I  said,  'I  don't  care 
— I'll  go  down  and  talk  with  you  if  you  like! 
Why  not?' 

"So  I  went.  He  treated  Rosie  beautifully — 
a  nice  friendly  manner  that  widened  her  eyes. 
Blue  eyes — and  a  dolly  complexion,  and  flaxen 
hair;  she  only  needed  the  ticket — 'My  clothes 
take  off'!    But  she  was  very  pretty — nothing  to 


THE  TALE  THAT  WOULDN'T  DO         79 

find  fault  with,  excepting  that  she  hadn't  a  brain. 
Alice  had  invited  a  man  who  didn't  count  to  take 
her  in  to  luncheon,  and  Dick  took  me.  Rosie 
was  displeased  with  me  at  luncheon.  Afterwards 
Dick  showed  me  the  garden,  and  I  brought  him 
back  with  a  flower  in  his  button-hole.  Rosie  was 
worried.  During  the  evening,  in  the  moonlight, 
I  said  pensively  it  must  be  divine  on  the  water 
now — and  Rosie  looked  as  if  she  hoped  I'd  be 
drowned. 

"We  were  away  about  an  hour.  Curious — we 
had  never  been  on  the  river  together  before.  He 
didn't  bore  me  too  much  about  her;  he  talked 
of  his  work,  and  mine,  and — we  had  a  lot  in 
common.  ...  It  was  about  the  last  time  we 
really  did  have  a  talk  together. 

"Oh,  well,  he  had  the  game  in  his  hands  from 
the  beginning!  Before  we  had  been  down  there 
two  days  he  told  me  they  were  engaged. 

"  'Hurrah !'  I  said.  'Good  luck  to  you,  old 
man.' 

"  'You've  been  a  trump,'  he  said ;  'if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you,  she  might  never  have  known  her 
own  heart.  I'm  so  grateful  to  you,  Pat,  I'd  like 
to  kiss  you.' 

"'Oh,  rats!'  I  said — 'I  don't  go  in  for  senti- 
ment.' " 


80      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

The  Bachelor  Girl's  voice  trembled.  She 
paused  again. 

*'I  had  flirted,  though,"  she  added  defiantly, 
"when  Rosie  was  watching;  and  it  was  a  great 
joke.  They  were  married  in  the  autumn.  I 
never  see  him  now,  but  he's  selling  'The  New 
Kittens'  and  'Baby's  First  Rattle'  for  big  prices, 
.  .  .  It's  time  we  had  tea.  Well,  you  wanted 
to  think  of  a  tale,  and  you've  been  told  one  in- 
stead. Not  that  it  would  do  for  you — it  isn't 
pathetic." 

"It  wouldn't  do  at  all,"  I  said,  "it's  very 
humorous." 

And  I  looked  at  the  fire  as  I  answered,  because 
I  knew  she  was  crying. 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY 


When  Willy  Childers  was  sent  to  the  Cape, 
he  went  to  the  last  country  on  the  face  of  the 
habitable  globe  to  which  he  was  suited.  It  is 
certainly  a  question  whether  he  would  have  made 
a  success  of  life  anywhere,  but  at  the  Cape  he 
was  so  much  out  of  place  that  he  became  con- 
spicuous. In  Paris,  when  he  had  learnt  the  lan- 
guage, he  would  at  least  have  felt  at  home;  he 
would  have  drifted  by  slow  degrees  into  a  con- 
genial set  in  London.  But  on  the  Diamond 
Fields,  a  young  man  who  hoped  to  be  a  poet, 
and  who  already  wrote  verse,  was  an  incongruity 
that  defies  comparison. 

To  give  him  his  due,  he  was  conscious  that  his 
presence  was  absurd  there  and  justified  the  chaff 
that  it  received,  and  he  loathed  the  "Fields"  with 
a  deeper  loathing  than  any  other  member  of  its 
perspiring  population.  But  he  could  not  go  to 
the  length  of  altering  his  nature  and  becoming 
brisk  and  enterprising,  nor  did  he  want  to  do 
that.     It  was  not  with  his  nature,  but  with  his 

81 


83     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

environment  that  he  found  fault.  "Lucky  rhymes 
to  him  were  scrip  and  share,"  and  he  was  full  of 
confidence  that  his  "mellow  metres"  were  going 
to  make  him  celebrated  one  day.  He  would 
rather  have  been  left  in  peace  with  plenty  of  sta- 
tionery than  have  had  the  business  of  any  broker 
in  the  Market. 

It  was  as  a  broker  that  he  began.  His  uncle, 
Blake  Somerset,  was  the  manager  of  the  For- 
tunatus  Mining  Company  in  Bultfontein;  and 
when  Willy  came  down  from  Oxford,  Somerset 
wrote,  to  the  Dulwich  villa,  that,  "now  all  that 
damned  University  foolishness  was  over,  the  boy 
had  better  buckle  to  and  try  to  make  a  living." 

It  must  be  conceded  that  Willy  had  not  dis- 
tinguished himself  at  Oxford,  and  displayed  no 
ability  for  any  of  the  recognised  professions. 

All  the  same,  the  suggestion  that  he  should 
buckle  to  in  South  Africa  sounded  to  him  pre- 
posterous. Dimly  he  had  had  visions  of  being 
called  to  the  Bar  and  obtaining  pleasant  cham- 
bers where  he  could  write  poetry  all  day  without 
being  disturbed.  But  he  had  reckoned  without 
his  mother,  without  her  faith  in  her  brother's 
judgment.  The  letter  had  made  a  strong  im- 
pression on  her  mind,  and  at  the  idea  of  its  being 
scouted  she  both  showed  temper  and  shed  tears. 
The  lady's  antecedents  and  sympathies  were  com- 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY    83 

mercial.  She,  too,  had  felt  Brasenose  to  be  fool- 
ishness— indeed,  she  had  felt  the  adjective  which 
she  might  not  use;  and  the  possession  of  a  son 
who  seemed  content  to  roam  about  the  garden 
with  a  book  of  Rossetti's,  or  Walter  Pater's,  and 
who  confessed  that  he  didn't  know  the  multipli- 
cation-table, was  causing  her  considerable  dis- 
quietude. She  wondered  if  there  had  been  any 
eccentricity  in  the  past  "on  poor  dear  Robert's 
side." 

Yes,  the  maternal  view  was  different  from 
Willy's.  She  retracted  her  suggestion  that  he 
should  read  for  the  Bar — it  had  been  but  a  half- 
hearted compromise  when  she  made  it — and  de- 
clared that  the  Cape  offered  far  finer  prospects. 
She  decided  that  it  was  just  the  plan  "to  take 
the  nonsense  out  of  him";  and  she  answered  her 
brother  to  the  effect  that  his  nephew  would  sail 
in  two  or  three  weeks'  time,  thoui^h  she  refrained 
from  explaining  to  him  what  kind  of  young  man 
his  nephew  was. 

Somerset  was  not  long  in  finding  it  out.  He 
himself  looked  like  a  farmer — or  as  one  expects 
a  farmer  to  look.  He  had  a  big  red  face,  and  a 
loud  laugh,  and  was  powerfully  framed.  His 
biceps  might  have  been  a  gymnast's.  Willy  was 
a  disappointment  the  moment  he  alighted  from 
the  train,  being  slightly  built  and  consumptive- 


84     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

looking.  And  he  had  no  conception  of  business: 
that  was  evident  in  their  initial  conversation. 
Without  a  suspicion  as  yet  of  the  young  fellow's 
tendencies,  Somerset  felt  instinctively  there  was 
something  wrong  with  him.  The  ignorance  of 
things  that  he  ought  to  have  known  might  be 
excused  in  remembering  the  kind  of  training 
that  he  had  had ;  but  there  was  something  worse 
than  ignorance ;  there  seemed  to  be  a  hint  of  in- 
capacity. Not  only  had  he  no  ideas  about  mak- 
ing money,  he  didn't  appear  interested  or  intelli- 
gent in  the  matter — a  fact  which  promised  no 
brilliant  future  for  him,  considering  that  all  he 
would  have  at  the  widow's  death  was  three  or 
four  hundi'ed  a  year, 

Nevertheless,  being  responsible  for  his  coming, 
Blake  Somerset  did  his  best  for  his  relative,  in  a 
rough  way. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  after  a  few  days,  "I 
think  broking  will  be  about  your  mark  here, 
youngster.  You  ought  to  earn  ten  or  twelve 
pounds  a  week  at  it,  if  you're  smart.  I'll  take 
you  round  the  Market  to-morrow  and  introduce 
you." 

Willy  replied  that  he  was  much  obliged. 

"What  do  I  do?"  he  inquired. 

"Do?  You  sell  the  stones!  You  go  into  the 
dealers'  offices  every  morning  and  ask  for  parcels. 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY  85 

and  then  you  cut  about  into  all  the  other  dealers* 
and  show  'em.  It's  a  pity  you  don't  know  any« 
thing  about  a  diamond,  but  you'll  soon  pick  a 
smattering  up.  And  you're  always  safe  to  say 
'I've  a  nice  little  lot  that  will  just  suit  you.'  " 

The  description  was  not  very  attractive  to  the 
Oxford  man;  but  being  already  uncomfortably 
conscious  that  his  uncle  did  not  think  much  of 
him,  he  made  a  gallant  attempt  to  simulate  an 
alacrity  that  he  couldn't  feel. 

The  introductions  were  duly  effected,  and, 
having  procured  a  licence,  Willy  embarked  on 
his  career  as  a  diamond  broker  without  delay. 
He  was  equipped  with  a  morocco-leather  satchel, 
furnished  with  many  pockets  and  designed  to 
carry  all  the  "parcels"  that  were  to  be  entrusted 
to  him. 

But  he  did  not  get  any.  He  hadn't  effrontery 
enough.  When  he  made  his  applications  he  asked 
as  briefly  as  possible  if  there  was  anything  for 
him,  and  slunk  out  mortified  as  soon  as  the  man 
said  "no."  This  though  he  did  not  fail  to  observe 
that  his  more  experienced  competitors  entered 
with  a  cheery  greeting,  an  air  of  confidence,  and 
sometimes  "Such  a  good  story!  I  must  tell  you, 
Mr.  Meyerstein !"  which  proved  much  more  ef- 
fectual. Half  an  hour  after  the  Market  opened 
he  had  repeated  his  dreary  formula  vainlv  in 


86     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

every  doorway  in  the  street.  Then  he  returned 
to  his  hotel,  and  dreamed  of  fame  and  England. 
His  uncle,  hearing  of  his  speedy  withdrawal, 
told  him  that  it  wouldn't  do.  If  he  wished  to 
succeed,  he  must  remain  on  the  scene  and  man- 
age to  look  as  if  he  were  succeeding.  Willy,  with 
a  heavy  heart,  took  the  hint ;  and  from  ten  o'clock 
till  four  henceforward,  with  the  thermometer  at 
a  hundred  degrees  in  the  shade,  he  bustled  round 
and  round  the  crooked  little  flaring  road,  vaunt- 
ing his  empty  satchel  as  if  he  were  very  busy  in- 
deed. But  the  pretence  did  not  seem  to  impress 
any  of  the  dealers,  who  sat  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
behind  the  wide  windows,  weighing  diamonds  in 
lack-lustre  scales;  and  when  he  called,  they  al- 
ways replied  that  they  "weren't  sending  any- 
thing out  this  morning,"  just  the  same. 

At  last  Somerset  wrote  to  his  sister  that  her 
boy  had  better  return  to  Dulwich.  He  said  wit- 
tily that  there  was  "no  opening  on  the  Fields  for 
poets" — he  had  discovered  Willy's  bent  by  this 
time — and  warned  her  that  living  was  expensive 
there;  the  future  Laureate  wpuld  loaf  more 
cheaply  at  home.  Mrs.  Childers  replied  that  she 
felt  such  surroundings  to  be  desirable  for  the  for- 
mation of  her  son's  character.  He  had  no  father, 
and  a  young  man  who  did  not  seem  to  have  any 
proper  ambition  would  be  a  great  responsibility 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY    87 

for  her  to  cope  with  alone.  Perhaps  by-and-by 
Blake  might  be  able  to  put  him  into  "a  clerkship 
or  something"  that  would  enable  him  to  keep 
himself  decently?  In  the  meanwhile,  the  extra 
expense  would  not  amount  to  so  much  as  his  pas- 
sage would  cost !  Somerset,  who  had  lost  all  in- 
terest in  his  nephew,  accordingly  looked  about, 
and  presently  contrived  to  obtain  a  post  for  him ; 
and  Willy  went  into  the  Magistrate's  Court  at 
Du  Toit's  Pan,  to  keep  the  Criminal  Record, 
and  take  affidavits  of  assault  and  other  offences, 
at  a  salary  of  three  pounds  a  week. 

That  had  been  two  years  ago;  and,  as  if  tb 
justify  his  uncle's  poor  opinion  of  him,  he  was  a 
clerk  in  the  same  place  still. 

This  afternoon  he  sat  idly  before  his  desk  in 
the  sweltering  office,  and  gazed  through  the  bars 
of  the  open  window  at  two  or  three  Kaffir  pris- 
oners in  charge  of  a  police  serjeant,  waiting  till 
their  names  were  called.  They  had  their  backs 
against  a  wall,  and  their  feet  in  the  thick,  hot 
dust.  Through  the  door  that  communicated  with 
the  shed-hke  court,  he  could  hear  the  droning 
tones  of  the  assistant  magistrate  disposing  of  the 
case  in  hand. 

Presently  the  voice  of  the  interpreter,  shouting 
"Jan  Sixpence!  Piccanini!  Tom  Fool!"  pro- 
claimed the  turn  of  the  negroes  outside.     The 


88     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Serjeant  gave  them  a  push,  and  they  moved  for- 
ward apathetically,  drawing  their  blankets  closer 
about  their  skinny  thighs.  The  baking  wall  and 
the  glare  of  dust  were  all  that  was  left  to  see. 
Childers  closed  his  eyes  wearily — ^his  sight  had 
been  troubling  him  of  late — and  leant  back  in 
his  chair,  wondering  if  life  had  any  surprise  in 
store  for  him — if  anybody  else  on  earth  was  so 
entirely  wretched. 

His  faith  in  himself  had  deserted  him  by  now, 
and  he  no  longer  foresaw  himself  a  celebrity.  He 
was  very  young  indeed  for  confidence  to  have 
gone,  but  he  was  not  naturally  self-reliant,  and 
it  had  been  chajBPed  out  of  him.  He  was  sick 
with  a  longing  for  sympathy — quite  the  last 
thing  attainable  here.  In  truth,  he  presented  one 
of  the  most  pathetic  figures  that  the  world  dis- 
plays, though  he  was  regarded  in  the  camp  as 
cutting  a  ludicrous  one,  for  while  he  experienced 
all  the  emotions  of  genius,  his  Vesuvius  brought 
forth  a  mouse ;  he  was  in  temperament  an  artist, 
and  in  destiny  a  clerk.  His  verse  was  disgrace- 
ful ;  at  times — much  more  rarely  than  he  knew — 
there  was  a  flash  of  something  better  than  grace 
in  it;  but  in  the  force  to  set  him  free  from  the 
environment  that  crushed  him  it  was  lacking. 
He  flapped  feeble  wings,  like  Sterne's  starling 
in  its  cage,  crying,  "I  can't  get  out!" 


THE  LAUKELS  AND  THE  LADY         89 

The  interpreter  brought  in  the  list,  for  the  mis- 
demeanours and  sentences  to  be  entered  in  the 
record. 

"Good-afternoon,  Massa  Childers;  I'm  gwine 
home." 

"Good-afternoon,  Mukasa." 


II 

It  was  a  quarter  to  five.  Mr.  Shepherd,  the 
assistant  magistrate — a  young  man  with  a  pink- 
and-white  complexion,  who  had  grown  a  beard 
in  order  to  make  himself  look  older — consulted 
his  watch  and  yawned. 

"Heigho,  poet!" 

"Tired,  sir?" 

"Tired  and  dry.  Well  have  a  liquor  as  soon 
as  we  shut  the  shop.    By  the  bye,  the  mail's  in." 

The  assistant  magistrate  was  always  among 
the  first  to  know  Vv^hen  the  mail  was  in,  being 
engaged  to  a  girl  in  England.  Later  on  she 
would  make  her  home  here,  and  cry  to  be  back 
in  Clapham. 

Childers  was  also  interested  in  the  arrival  of 
the  mail.  He  had  submitted  his  volume  of  poems 
four  months  since  to  perhaps  the  only  firm  of 
publishers  left  for  it  to  go  to,  and  it  was  within 


90      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

the  bounds  of  possibility  that  there  might  be  a 
Une  by  this  time  conveying  their  "regrets." 

"Are  they  dehvering  yet?"  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  hear,"  said  Mr.  Shepherd;  "my  let- 
ters always  come  to  the  Club.  I  say,  are  you 
going  to  the  theatre  to-night?" 

"Not  to-night.  Of  course  I  shall  go  some  eve- 
ning or  other.  But  I  expect  all  to-night's  seats 
are  gone." 

"No,  they  say  there  are  still  some  left  to  fight 
for  at  the  doors.  All  the  best  ones  are  gone,  you 
bet — two  pounds  each!" 

"Great  Scott!    Better  than  clerking — eh?" 

"Better  than  trying  niggers  in  the  Pan,  too," 
said  the  assistant  magistrate.  "Did  you  ever  see 
her  at  home?" 

Willy  shook  his  head. 

"Have  youV 

"I  saw  her  once,  yes — in  my  last  holiday.  I 
don't  know  French,  but  I  shall  never  forget  it  as 
long  as  I  live — no  kid !  She  is  the  greatest  act- 
ress in  the  world;  she  turns  you  inside  out." 

"I  wish  she  played  in  English,"  said  Willy, 
fining  his  pipe;  "she  might  just  as  well — they 
say  she  speaks  it  fluently.  Have  you  got  a  match, 
haasr 

Rose  Duchene  had  been  tempted  to  Kimber- 
ley.     There  had  been  an  excited  rumour  of  her 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY    91 

coming  the  year  previous,  but  the  negotiations 
fell  through,  and  there  was  nothing  better  than 
a  prize-fight  on  the  border  of  the  Orange  Free 
State,  ^^ow  the  famous  actress  had  actually  ar- 
rived. The  local  papers  had  been  teeming  for 
weeks  with  all  the  anecdotes  of  her  that  had  been 
worn  threadbare  in  Paris  and  London  a  decade 
and  more  ago.  Her  eccentricities,  her  extrava- 
gance, her  pet  tiger-cub,  and  her  eighty  thousand 
pounds'  worth  of  dresses — the  public  read  the 
stories  all  over  again,  and  enjoyed  them.  Such 
of  the  stores  as  sold  photographs  had  crowded 
their  windows  with  her  likenesses,  and  the  walls 
of  the  corrugated-iron  theatre,  and  the  bar  be- 
side it  were  placarded  with  the  name  of  Rosa 
Duchene  in  letters  five  feet  long.  Every  editor 
on  the  Fields  had  rushed  in  person  to  interview 
her;  and  this  morning's  Independent  detailed 
her  "impressions"  of  the  place,  which  she  had 
artlessly  declared  seemed  to  her  to  contain  a 
larger  number  of  handsome  men  and  pretty 
women  than  any  other  city  of  its  size  that  she  had 
seen.  Even  Rosa  Duchcnes  cannot  afford  to 
neglect  such  "impressions." 

Willy  lit  his  pipe,  and  puffed  at  it  with  a  sud- 
den sense  of  pleasure.  Yes,  he  would  go  this  eve- 
ning, if  he  could  get  in !    It  would  be  an  emotion 


92     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

tasted  earlier  than  he  had  expected  it.  Did  Mr. 
Shepherd  mean  to  go? 

Ted  Shepherd  said  that  he  did.  The  five- 
shilHng  seats  were  quite  good  enough  for  him, 
and  they  would  go  together  if  Willy  liked.  He 
glanced  at  his  watch  again,  and  started. 

"The  devil!"  he  exclaimed,  "we've  stopped  five 
minutes  too  long.  Come  on,  poet,  we'll  go  and 
have  that  drink." 

They  picked  up  their  wideawakes  hurriedly, 
and  strolled  into  the  Club. 

The  boy  behind  the  bar  had  fallen  asleep  and 
was  dozing  as  peacefully  as  the  flies  allowed,  for 
work  in  the  mines  did  not  conclude  till  "sun- 
down" and  the  Club  was  almost  deserted  at  this 
hour.  The  only  members  visible  were  a  digger, 
whose  enterprise  had  terminated  by  reason  of 
exhausted  capital,  and  a  law-agent  without  any 
clients,  and  a  medical  man  who  had  many  pa- 
tients but  rarely  received  his  fees. 

The  civil  servants  had  brandy-and-soda,  and 
the  assistant  magistrate  played  with  the  dice-box. 

"I'll  shake  you  who  pays  for  both  to-night,  if 
you  like,  poet,"  he  said, 

Willy  nodded,  and  won,  and  ordered  fresh 
brandy-and-soda  to  celebrate  his  victory. 

They  had  scarcely  swallowed  it  when  they  be- 
came aware  of  an  angry  mutter,  mingling  with 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY    93 

the  whir  of  the  buckets  and  the  throbbing  of  en- 
gines across  the  road — a  clamour  of  impatient 
voices.  The  digger,  who  was  looking  at  a  picture 
of  Hyde  Park  Corner  in  the  Illustrated  London 
News,  and  wondering  how  long  it  would  be  be- 
fore he  saw  the  original  again,  became  aware  of 
it  also,  and  he  dropped  the  paper  with  apprehen- 
sion. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  about  me,'"  he  said,  turning 
rather  pale. 

"\^Tiat's  wrong,  Johnny?''  asked  Shepherd. 

"It's  the  Boys,  I  expect  I  You  see,  I  couldn't 
pay  'em  this  morning;  they'll  go  for  me  if  they; 
get  the  chance." 

Willy  went  to  the  door,  followed  by  everybodj^ 
excepting  Johnny  Teale.  A  gang  of  some  fifty 
niggers,  Zulus,  Kaffirs,  and  Basutos,  of  all  ages, 
had  surged  to  the  foot  of  the  stoep — a  low,  grav- 
elled veranda  before  the  club — and  were  demand- 
ing their  wages,  or  Mr.  Teale's  blood. 

"It  is  the  Boys,"  said  Willy. 

"I  thought  so.  Well,  tip  'em  some  of  your 
verses,  poet,  and  calm  'em  down!" 

"Why  don't  you  pay  the  beggars?"  said  the 
law-agent. 

"Pay  'em?"  echoed  the  ex -lessee  of  the  Mooi 
Khp  Mining  Comj^any.     "That  cursed  ground 


94.     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

hasn't  yielded  working  expenses  for  weeks.  Pay 
'em?    Do  you  think  I'm  the  Standard  Bank?"' 

The  doctor  exhorted  him  to  come  forward,  and 
he  came  gingerly.  His  appearance  was  greeted 
with  loud  yells,  and  a  hundred  naked  arms  were 
lifted  in  execration  and  appeal.  In  the  instinc- 
tive way  that  the  negroes  lifted  their  arms,  there 
was  a  touch  of  dignity,  even  of  tragedy,  that 
would  have  gladdened  a  London  super-master's 
heart.  Presently,  however,  by  dint  of  fervid 
promises  which  he  had  no  prospect  of  being  able 
to  fulfill,  Teale  succeeded  in  inducing  the  posse 
to  depart.  And,  this  consummation  attained,  he 
dragged  his  supporters  jubilantly  to  the  bar. 

Childers  was  not  among  them.  He  made  his 
way,  through  the  dust  and  ox-wagons  on  the 
Market  Square,  to  the  post-office,  only  to  find 
the  publishers  had  not  written;  and  then,  retrac- 
ing his  steps,  he  went  into  his  room  to  lie  down. 
His  eyes  ached  badly,  and  he  was  sure  that  he 
saw  less  clearly  still.  The  doctor  had  told  him 
that  the  trouble  was  caused  by  his  "general  con- 
dition" and  advised  him  to  rest  his  sight  as  much 
as  possible.  But  rest  had  not  improved  it,  nor 
had  the  lotion  and  the  tonic  done  any  good. 

Soon  afterwards  the  piercing  shrieks  of  en- 
gines announced  that  work  in  the  mines  was  over 
for  the  day;  and  now  men  poured  up  in  shoals, 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY    95 

to  wash,  and  dine,  and  to  exchange — to-night — 
their  Bedford-cords  for  dress-suits  that  were  rel- 
ics of  a  European  past. 

In  Kimberley,  dress-suits  were  worn  more  fre- 
quently, but  Kimberley  was  three  miles  from  Du 
Toit's  Pan  and,  by  comparison,  fashionable. 
There  were  even  men  in  Kimberley  who  wore 
stiff  collars  every  day.  And  the  theatre  was 
there.  Du  Toit's  Pan  had  nothing  but  the  Club, 
and  an  hotel,  and  a  corrugated-iron  church. 

It  was  early  when  Childers  and  his  chief  met 
again  and  drove  into  the  larger  township.  But 
a  crowd  had  already  collected  under  the  electric 
lamps  of  Main  Street.  And  when  the  doors  were 
opened,  and  the  pair  at  last  gained  seats,  they 
squeezed  into  them  breathless. 

A  long  procession  of  "carts"  sped  over  the 
bare  connecting  road  in  the  next  half -hour.  The 
"Rush"  hummed  with  "carts."  Comparatively 
small  as  was  the  theatre,  it  appeared  to  those  in  it 
to  contain  the  population  of  all  the  camps.  When 
the  orchestra  came  m,  the  house  looked  like  a  hill 
of  white  arms  and  bosoms,  and  shining  shirt- 
fronts.  A  novel  and  agreeable  flutter  of  sus- 
pense stole  through  the  audience ;  women  glanced 
and  smiled  towards  one  another  with  little,  ex- 
cited nods.    Many  had  forgotten,  for  the  instant, 


96     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

where  they  were  and,  in  fancy,  were  transported 
to  the  rran9ais  or  the  Gaiety,  where  they  had 
seen  Duchene  last. 

Some  touch  of  the  excitement  below  communi- 
cated itself  to  Childers  upstairs.  As  the  three 
foreign  knocks  sounded,  he  leant  forward  eager- 
ly. The  play  was  JLa  Dame  Aux  Camelias.  It 
began  with  a  few  lines  between  de  Varville,  seat- 
ed by  the  mantelpiece,  and  Nanine,  the  maid. 
Willy  strained  in  vain  to  distinguish  what  was 
said ;  he  had  never  read  the  piece,  though  he  knew 
the  plot. 

There  was  the  entrance  of  Nichette ;  she  spoke 
briefly  to  Nanine,  and  left.  And  then  followed 
an  exhausting  conversation  between  the  man  and 
the  girl,  during  which  the  audience  suppressed 
their  impatience  as  best  they  could;  few  under- 
stood more  than  a  word  here  and  there,  though 
many  assumed  an  air  of  keen  appreciation.  There 
was  the  peal  at  the  bell;  there  was  the  servant's 
exclamation,  "C'est  madame!"  .   .   . 

She  came  on  in  her  best  style — ^while  the  wom- 
en caught  their  breath  at  her  gown ;  she  affected 
unconsciousness  that  an  audience  was  criticising 
her.  But  they  would  not  have  it — tliey  were  too 
grateful  to  her.  The  applause  broke  out,  vocif- 
erous and  sustained.  The  Diamond  Fields  were 
welcoming  the  only  important  actress  that  had 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY    9T 

then  come  to  bless  them,  and  it  was  nearly  a  min- 
ute before  she  could  speak. 

As  the  act  proceeded,  Childers  found  his  throat 
tightening  queerly.  The  story  has  been  as  much 
abused  as  any  that  was  ever  written;  but  sickly, 
unhealthy,  morbid,  or  not,  it  is  a  story  that  ap- 
peals to  almost  every  imaginative  young  man.  It 
fascinates  him  strongly  as  it  develops;  perhaps 
he,  too,  may  one  day  meet  a  Marguerite?  In 
secret  he  has  often  wished  to  do  so ;  and  he  iden- 
tifies himself  with  its  hero,  who,  on  the  stage,  is 
so  splendid  in  his  romance  and  passion,  and  in 
the  book,  by  his  own  confession,  as  arrant  a  cad 
as  ever  escaped  having  his  head  punched.  From 
a  theatrical  point  of  view  it  has  a  greater  recom- 
mendation: it  provides  a  leading  actress  with  an 
opportunity  which  few  modern  dramas  equal. 
And  to-night  Duchene,  who  had  carefully  select- 
ed it  for  her  opening  performance,  availed  her- 
self of  the  opportunity  to  the  fullest. 

She  was  at  this  time  nearly  forty  years  of  age, 
but  behind  the  footlights  she  did  not  look  a  day 
more  than  twenty-five.  Her  grace,  her  power, 
the  tricks — which  in  their  apparent  spontaneity 
concealed  such  cleverness  that  it  demanded  a  fel- 
low-player to  appreciate  them  as  they  deserved 
— took  one  novice  among  the  spectators  by  storm. 
At  the  end  of  the  second  act  he  felt  that  he  was 


98     THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

in  the  presence  of  a  revelation.  During  the  fifth 
act,  tears  rolled  down  his  face,  and  he  tried  fur- 
tively to  hide  them  with  his  programme,  afraiH 
that  Shepherd  would  ridicule  him. 

The  result  of  Willy  Childers'  going  to  see 
Rosa  Duchene  was  really  a  foregone  conclusion; 
gun-powder  had  met  the  spark  and  only  one 
thing  could  happen,.  A  poet — that  he  was  a 
pseudo  poet  matters  very  little — who  had  been 
eating  his  heart  out  on  the  Diamond  Fields  was 
confronted,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  with  a 
beautiful  woman  who  was  a  genius.  When  the 
curtain  fell  and  the  people  rose  and  screamed  at 
her,  Willy  did  not  scream ;  he  kept  his  seat,  quiv- 
ering hysterically.  He  was  wrenched  by  the 
death-scene  that  he  had  witnessed;  the  agony  of 
the  lover's  cry  was  in  his  own  soul.  He  wanted 
to  walk  away  somewhere  alone.  The  compan- 
ionship of  Shepherd  was  torture  to  liim,  and  he 
thought  that  he  would  have  given  anything  that 
could  be  named  to  have  the  right  to  go  to  her  and 
stammer  what  she  had  made  him  feel. 

Such  exaltation  sounds  very  absurd,  but,  close- 
ly examined,  it  is  not  so  absurd  as  it  sounds. 
After  the  illusion  of  intimate  confidence  that  is 
created  by  sympathising  with  a  great  actress 
through  the  range  of  emotions  that  she  represents 
— laughing  with  her  laughter,  and  grieving  with 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY    99 

her  when  she  grieves — one  leaves  the  theatre  hav- 
ing seen  nothing  at  all  of  her  real  nature.  But 
how  much  has  one  seen  of  the  young  girl's  with 
whom  one  may,  more  conventionally,  fall  in  love 
at  a  dance?  Both  have  uttered  things  that  were 
not  natural  to  them  during  the  evening;  and,  to 
say  the  least  of  it,  the  actress's  pretence  has  been 
as  attractive  as  the  girl's.  One  man  would  like 
to  take  her  out  to  supper;  another  would  make 
of  her  an  ideal  and  an  inspiration.  She  has 
charmed  them  both;  and  the  fact  that  suppers 
may  be  more  in  her  line  than  inspiration  is  ir- 
relevant. 

He  escaped  from  Shepherd,  and  taking  up  a 
position  by  the  stage-door,  waited  there  in  the 
hope  of  obtaining  a  glimpse  of  her  when  she  left. 
The  hope  was  not  fulfilled;  she  must  have  come 
out  by  another  exit. 

The  intense  dry  heat  and  the  sun's  blinding 
glare  had  been  succeeded  by  a  faint  breeze,  and 
as  he  drove  home  his  mind  spun  more  quickly  for 
its  freshness,  and  the  rapid  motion  of  the  "cart." 
He  thought  again  of  his  volume  of  verse  at  the 
London  publishers',  and  saw  it  accepted  and  tri- 
umphant. An  unfamiliar  exhilaration  throbbed 
in  his  veins,  and  fancy  mounted  beyond  control, 
playing  all  sorts  of  pranks,  unexpected  and  de- 
lightful, till  it  seemed  lifting  him  into  heaven. 


100    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

It  was  only  when  the  horses  stopped  that  he 
returned  to  reality.  From  |the  stagna|nt  pan 
came  the  croaking  of  frogs,  and  the  howling  of 
innumerable  stray  curs.  The  mine  yawned  deep- 
ly in  the  night,  and,  with  the  suggestion  of  gigan- 
tic gallows,  the  structures  of  the  hauling  gear 
round  the  reef  rose  blackly  against  a  luminous 
sky.  From  the  Club,  there  was  the  click  of  bil- 
liard balls  and  a  jingle  of  glasses.  But  he  did 
not  go  in. 

Ill 

Shepherd  was  the  first  to  suspect  what  was 
the  matter.  Probably  because  he  saw  more  of 
Childers  than  anybody  else  did ;  possibly  because 
incriminating  compositions  on  the  Government 
stationery  fell  under  his  notice.  Indeed,  it  is  said 
that  the  girl  at  Clapham  received  a  tribute  in 
verse  from  the  assistant  magistrate  about  this 
date.  Anyhow  suspicion  arose;  and  Willy's  re- 
ception of  the  tentative  chaff  was  as  damning  as 
plain  acknowledgement — and  much  more  com- 
ical. Altogether  it  was  voted  the  most  comical 
thing  that  "the  poet"  could  have  done.  "Childers 
in  love,"  pure  and  simple,  would  have  been  an 
amusing  object,  but  Willy  Childers  in  love  with 
Rosa  Duchene  was  a  situation  that  tickled  Du 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        101 

Toit's  Pan  uncontrollably.  It  became  the  fa- 
vourite pastime  to  lure  him  into  the  smoking- 
room  and  invent  anecdotes  about  his  enchantress. 
He  was  old  enough  to  have  forgotten  how  to 
blush,  but  he  blushed  still,  and  his  face,  while  the 
stories  were  told,  supplied  them  with  a  superflu- 
ous sauce  piquante. 

And  cartoons  were  made  of  him,  and  pasted 
on  the  wall.    In  one  he  sang — 

"Ask  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet. 
All  I  can  give  you,  I  give"; 

and  was  depicted  on  his  knees  to  the  actress,  with 
an  ode  in  one  hand  and  a  child's  money-box  in 
the  other.  Life  was  made  in  various  ways  a  bur- 
den to  him,  though  no  one  meant  any  harm. 
"Good-morning;  have  you  been  to  the  theatre, 
Childers?"  became  the  stock  joke,  a  catch-phrase 
with  which  he  was  greeted  by  everybody;  and 
when  he  did  go  to  the  theatre  now,  he  slunk  in 
late,  and  hid  himself  at  the  back  of  the  gallery 
from  shame. 

It  was  when  half  of  Duchene's  season  of  six 
weeks  had  expired  that  the  chaff  stopped;  and 
it  stopped  abruptly.  For  the  first  time  men 
spoke  of  Willy  Childers  in  a  tone  of  gravity. 
One  morning  he  had  not  appeared  at  the  Magis- 
trate's Court;  hQ  had  sent  a  few  lines  in  a  pain- 


102    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

ful,  sprawling  hand,  to  say  that  his  sight  was 
much  worse — that  he  was  "afraid  it  was  serious" ; 
and  a  few  days  after  that,  the  news  circulated 
that  he  was  blind. 

In  improving  tales,  when  the  misunderstood 
boy  loses  his  sight,  all  his  acquaintances  reproach 
themselves  for  their  cruelty  towards  him  and 
flock  to  his  simple  parlour  to  listen  to  him  talking 
like  a  tract  and  derive  a  lasting  moral  from  the 
patience  he  displays.  It  did  not  happen  like  that 
in  Willy  Childers'  case,  because  the  men  had  no 
idea  that  they  had  shown  any  cruelty.  Except- 
ing for  Ted  Shepherd,  and  one  or  two  other  very 
occasional  visitors,  he  passed  his  time  in  unbrok- 
en solitude. 

Of  course  it  was  useless  for  him  to  remain  on 
the  Fields  any  longer.  Somerset,  who  in  a  few 
months'  time  was  going  to  England  for  a  brief 
holiday,  had  arranged  to  take  him  home ;  in  Lon- 
don a  specialist  was  to  be  consulted,  and  perhaps 
an  operation  might  be  performed.  Meanwhile 
Willy  was  removed  to  the  manager's  cottage  on 
the  Fortunatus  works.  His  uncle  came  there  to 
sleep,  between  the  hour' of  the  Club's  closing  and 
"sun-up"  each  morning;  during  the  day  a  Kaffir 
fetched  his  meals  from  the  Carnarvon  Hotel.  He 
had  no  one  to  talk  to;  he  knew  none  of  the  pur- 
suits by  which  the  blind  contrive,  after  years,  to 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        103 

occupy  themselves.  He  could  do  nothing  but 
think,  and  compose  verse  in  his  head ;  he  sat  help- 
less in  the  blazing  iron  shanty,  listening  to  the 
clamour  of  machinery,  throughout  the  day,  or  the 
crooning  of  Kaffirs,  crouched  round  their  bon- 
fires, when  the  moon  rose.  And  in  this  fashion  a 
fortnight  wore  itself  past. 

Johnny  Teale  was  the  man!  Others  partici- 
pated, and  so  were  guilty — among  theai  Blake 
Somerset — but  Johnny  Teale  was  the  man  that 
suggested  the  trick;  let  it  be  stated!  There  was 
a  girl  in  the  "Rush"  in  those  days  referred  to  as 
"Poll  Patchouli" — she  had  opened  a  shop,  at  the 
back  of  the  Diamond  Market,  for  the  sale  of  bad 
scent,  after  she  left  the  ladies'  orchestra,  with 
which  she  had  come  from  Natal.  Her  real  name 
was  not  known.  She  called  herself  "Olive  Es- 
mond," but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She 
was  not  considered  pretty;  she  was,  in  fact, 
thought  very  plain,  even  in  a  spot  where  men 
w^ere  not  exacting  in  the  matter  of  feminine  at- 
tractions and  a  little  comeliness  went  a  long  way. 
She  was,  however,  an  amusing  girl,  not  wholly 
uneducated ;  and  a  fortnight  after  Willy's  retire- 
ment to  the  cottage  opposite  the  Fortunatus  tail- 
ings-heap, it  transpired  that  she  had  a  singular 
accompHshment:  she  could  imitate  Rose  Duchene 
to  the  life.     She  did  it  so  well,  according  to  an 


104.    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

enthusiast  who  had  heard  her,  that  she  might 
have  got  an  engagement  at  Home  at  a  music-halL 
He  said  you  "could  have  shut  your  eyes  and 
sworn  Duchene  was  speaking." 

It  was  precisely  this  criticism  that  gave  John- 
ny Teale  his  idea.  If  you  could  shut  your  eyes 
and  think  Duchene  was  speaking,  she  might  be 
presented  to  a  blind  man  as  Duchene  herself. 

Some  of  the  group  to  which  he  propounded  it 
certainly  demurred.  They  said  it  would  be  black- 
guardly to  play  tricks  with  Childers  now  and  ob- 
jected a  good  deal  in  an  irresolute  way.  But 
Teale  set  himself  to  argue  their  scruples  into  air. 
For  Childers  to  have  a  conversation  with  Polly 
under  the  impression  she  was  the  actress 
"wouldn't  do  the  poor  chap  any  harm,"  he  in- 
sisted— "on  the  contrary,  it'd  give  him  immense 
pleasure."  And  as  to  the  humour  of  the  sell,  it 
would  be  one  of  the  best  practical  jokes  ever  per- 
petrated in  the  camp. 

That  was  true,  and  a  strong  temptation. 

Reiterating  that  the  victim  need  never  know; 
that  no  disappointment  was  entailed;  that  the 
scene  would  be  no  less  delightful  to  Childers,  be- 
cause the  happiness  was  illusory,  he  had  his  way 
at  last.  And  Polly  was  interviewed  and  coached. 
A  deputation  went  up  to  Kimberley  to  see  her. 

"We  want  you  to  help  us  in  a  tremendous 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        105 

spoof,    Polly,"   they   said.      "You've   heard   of 
Willy  Childers?" 

No,  she  had  not  heard  of  him;  who  was  he? 

"Well,  he  thinks  he's  a  poet,  and  he  has  lost 
his  sight,  and  he's  in  love  with  Duchene,"  ex- 
plained Teale.  "Now,  we  want  to  tell  him  we're 
going  to  introduce  him  to  her,  and  then  bring 
him  to  you — d'ye  see?  He'll  make  love  to  you 
as  violently  as  he  knows  how,  and  you're  to  pre- 
tend to  be  awfully  taken  with  him,  and  kid  him 
on — d'ye  see?  Of  course  you'll  talk  all  the  time 
like  Duchene,  and  end  by  vowing  he's  the  only 
man  in  the  w^orld  for  you !  And  we — two  or  three 
of  us — '11  be  hidden  about  the  place  somewhere, 
watching  the  game — d'ye  see?  Fow^know!  D'ye 
think  you  can  do  it?" 

The  girl  laughed.  She  was  not  disgusted  by 
the  infamous  taste  of  the  project;  it  struck  her 
as  being  an  uncommonly  funny  one. 

"You  may  bet  all  j^ou've  got  I  can  do  it,"  she 
said.  "Rather!  What  a  lark!  When'll  you 
bring  him,  boys?" 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be  carried  out  carefully," 
said  Teale;  "one  of  us  must  go  and  say  that  he 
has  met  her ;  and  then,  very  kindly,  say  he'll  try 
to  get  permission  to  present  Childers  to  her.  He's 
as  green  as  they  make  'em,  but  it  won't  do  to 


106    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

rush  the  thing  through  as  if  it  were  as  easy  as  or- 
dering a  drink.     Say  Thursday,  eh?" 

"Right,"  said  Polly.  "Thursday.  Is  he  really 
crazy  for  her,  or  just  spoons?" 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  he  knelt  down  and  kissed 
your  boots." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  again. 

"I  shall  enjoy  this,"  she  exclaimed.  "It's 
something  I  like!" 

No  time  was  lost  in  acquainting  Willy  with  the 
privilege  that  might  be  in  store  for  him;  and  for 
a  moment  the  expressions  of  gratitude  into  which 
he  broke  made  the  conspirators  feel  almost  as 
despicable  as  they  were. 

They  left  him  in  a  fever  of  suspense  for  a 
couple  of  days.  And  then  he  was  told  that  Teale 
and  Ted  Shepherd  v/ere  to  take  him  to  Duchene 
on  the  following  afternoon. 

"I  let  her  know  you  wrote  poetry,"  said  Teale; 
"I  cracked  you  up  a  lot  before  I  asked  permis- 
sion to  bring  you.  It  wanted  a  bit  of  nerve  to 
do  it,  considering  I'd  only  met  her  once,  myself, 
but  I  knew  how  keen  on  it  you  were !" 

Willy,  who  was  trembling,  groped  for  his 
hand,  and  pressed  it. 

Indeed,  he  could  hardly  realise  that  the  be- 
wildering thing  had  happened.  It  was  actual!  he 
had  to  repeat  it.     The  prospect  of  sitting  by 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        107 

Rosa  Duchene  and  hearing  her  talk,  though  he 
wouldn't  see  her,  dizzied  him.  At  night  he  could 
not  sleep ;  and  he  passed  the  long  morning  pray- 
ing to  hear  each  hour  strike  on  the  little  Ameri- 
can clock  that  he  had  bought  to  let  him  know  how 
the  time  went  since  his  watch  became  useless. 
When  Teale  and  the  assistant  magistrate  arrived, 
and  guided  him  up  into  the  "cart,"  the  effort  of 
replying  to  them  was  pain.  He  thanked  God 
when  he  could  be  silent.  His  breathing  appara- 
tus was  playing  the  same  tricks  that  it  had  played 
in  the  theatre,  and  the  clip-clop  sound  of  the 
horses'  hoofs  seemed  to  be  vibrating  in  his  in- 
side. 

The  hotel  to  which  they  were  bound  was  not 
the  Queen's,  where  Duchene  was  really  staying, 
but  a  third-rate  hotel  called  the  Royal,  and  his 
companions  had  misgivings  lest  he  should  detect 
the  difference.  On  reaching  Kimberley,  Teale 
began  to  talk  again  eagerly,  to  distract  his  atten- 
tion ;  but  it  was  taking  unnecessary  trouble.  His 
affliction  was  too  recent,  and  his  excitement  too 
great,  for  the  dupe  to  have  such  acuteness  of  per- 
ception. 

The  driver  stopped;  and  Shepherd,  who  had 
agreed  to  come,  less  because  he  looked  forward 
to  being  amused  by  the  deception  than  because 
he  wished  to  see  that  it  was  not  carried  too  far, 


108    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

helped  the  blind  man  down,  his  pink-and-white 
complexion  pinker  than  usual. 

They  were  met  in  the  hall  by  a  Kaffir  servant, 
who  had  been  carefully  rehearsed  in  his  part.  He 
showed  his  teeth  in  a  grin  of  appreciation. 

"Is  Madame  Duchene  in?"  said  Teale.  "We're 
expected." 

The  negro  disappeared,  and  after  a  few  min- 
utes returned  to  conduct  them  to  a  poor,  ground 
floor  room  that  opened  on  to  a  stoep  and  a  back 
yard.  At  one  end  was  a  small  bedstead,  with  a 
washhand-stand  at  the  foot.  The  rest  of  the  fur- 
niture consisted  of  a  chest-of-drawers,  a  chintz- 
covered  couch,  and  a  couple  of  basket-chairs.  A 
few  coloured  plates  from  the  summer  numbers  of 
the  English  illustrated  papers  had  been  pasted 
on  the  walls. 

"Madame  Duchene  soon  come,"  he  said  re- 
spectfully; "madame  says,  the  haas  please  wait!" 
Then  he  grinned  more  widely  still,  and  pointed 
to  the  window.  Behind  it,  half  a  dozen  bearded 
faces  were  pressed ;  half  a  dozen  arms  waved  gay 
salutes. 

"Great  Scott!"  exclaimed  Teale,  as  the  Kaffir 
retired.  "We're  in  a  drawing-room  again,  eh?" 
He  gave  a  soft  whistle,  expressive  of  admiration 
and  astonishment.    "What  do  you  think  of  this?" 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Shepherd,  confusedly. 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        109 

Teale  nudged  him  and  frowned. 

"  'All  right'  ?"  he  echoed.  "Well,  I  don't  know 
what  you  were  used  to,  my  lord,  but  it's  about 
as  fine  as  anything  I  ever  struck.  Look  at  that 
tapestry,  and  those  bally  idols  over  there,  and — 
why,  the  woman  must  be  mad  to  carry  such 
things  about  with  her!" 

"What's  it  like?"  asked  Willy  in  a  reverent 
voice. 

"It's  Oriental,"  said  Teale ;  "shouldn't  you  call 
it  'Oriental,'  Shepherd?  By  Gum!  I  should 
like  to  see  her  flat  in  Paris,  if  this  is  the  sort  of 
thing  she  goes  in  for  for  six  weeks.  What's  the 
Eastern  smell;  don't  you  notice  it?" 

It  was  a  pastille  that  had  been  set  burning  in 
the  soap-dish.  He  affected  to  explore  for  it 
among  countless  treasures. 

"This  is  it,"  he  said;  "in  this  Pagoda  affair. 
What  does  she  keep  her  rooms  so  dark  for;  a  bit 
mystic,  ain't  it?  Take  care!  don't  move,  Child- 
ers,  or  you'll  tumble  over  a  tiger's  head.    Hullo!" 

There  was  a  woman's  step  in  the  passage,  and 
as  they  caught  it,  Willy  turned  a  dead  white. 
The  group  outside,  who  could  see  but  not  hear, 
puffed  their  cigarettes  and  continued  to  stare  in 
curiously. 

"Here  she  is,"  murmured  Shepherd.  "Stand 
up,  boy!" 


110    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Willy  obeyed  as  the  door  opened;  and  Poll 
Patchouli  came  in. 


IV 

"Good-afternoon^  gentlemen,"  she  said  lan- 
guidly.   "Ah,  monsieur!  be  seated,  I  beg." 

Her  "monsieur"  was  the  only  false  note,  and 
of  that  he  was  no  judge.  Every  pulse  in  his 
body  leapt  at  her  entrance;  every  nerve  in  him 
quickened  at  the  rustle  of  her  cheap  little  frock 
across  the  floor.  To  him  it  was  brocade  of  a  mys- 
terious rose  tint  and  there  was  old  lace  on  her 
bosom. 

She  sank  into  one  of  the  basket-chairs,  and 
looked  towards  his  companions  for  approval, 
with  her  tongue  in  her  cheek. 

"I  am  very  pleased  to  see  you,"  she  said;  "your 
friends  have  spoken  about  you  to  me." 

"You  see  one  of  your  most  ardent  admirers, 
madame,"  said  Teale,  "and  a  poet.  I'm  afraid 
Mr.  Shepherd  and  I  are  in  the  way  at  the  meet- 
ing of  two  artists." 

Willy  lifted  his  hand  in  discomfiture. 

"Don't  make  me  absurd,"  he  stammered; 
"don't  laugh  at  me,  madame!  I'm.  not  an  artist, 
I  only  hoped  to  be  one.  But  I'm  grateful — ever 
so  grateful — for  your  letting  me  come  here.    To 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        111 

have  spoken  to  you  will  be  something  to  remem- 
ber all  my  life." 

The  girl  smiled  almost  as  broadly  as  the  negro 
had  done. 

"You  are  very — very — what  is  the  word  in 
English? — complimentary,"  she  drawled.  "You 
must  not  make  me  vain,  you  know!  And  you 
are  too  modest  also — is  it  not,  Mr.  Teale?  I  am 
told  that  your  poems  are  quite  charming." 

Even  Shepherd  was  amused;  she  was  doing  it 
very  well.  The  sj^ectators  at  the  window  pushed 
against  one  another  inquiringly. 

"Will  you  not  recite  one  to  me?"  she  asked. 

"Bravo,"  said  Teale,  "the  very  thing!  Go  on, 
Childers;  let  madame  hear  something  you've 
done." 

"I  couldn't,"  said  Willy.  "Forgive  me,  ma- 
dame; I  couldn't,  indeed!" 

"In  Paris,"  said  Polly,  "many  poets  recite 
their  verses  to  me.  Yes,  truly,  you  are  too  mod- 
est, monsieur.  Well,  as  you  please;  then  let 
us  talk!    You  are  fond  of  the  theatre,  eh?" 

He  bowed.  "Passionately  of  late!"  he  an- 
swered awkwardly. 

"Aha!  but  he  can  make  pretty  speeches,  too, 
our  modest  poet.  You,  Mr.  Teale,  have  not  said 
anything  so  nice  to  me.  But  perhaps  you  do 
not  feel  it,  either?" 


112    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Everybody  raves  about  madame  Duchene," 
said  Shepherd;  "Mr.  Teale  and  I  are  very  hon- 
oured to  be — er — very  honoured  indeed." 

He  caught  signals  from  the  onlookers,  and 
drew  Teale's  attention  to  them.  They  were 
growing  impatient  out  there.  The  dialogue  was 
lost  upon  them,  and  viewed  as  a  pantomime  the 
scene  was  dull.  Polly  saw  the  gestures,  too,  and 
shook  her  fist  at  the  crowd  joyously. 

*'To-night,"  she  resumed,  "I  play  one  of  my 
favourite  roles — Marguerite," 

In  point  of  fact  she  was  mistaken:  Duchene 
was  to  play  Frou-Frou.  But  Willy  could  not 
read  the  newspapers  any  more. 

"I've  seen  you  in  it,"  he  said  eagerly.  "I  was 
at  your  first  performance.  I  shall  never  see  you 
in  it  again." 

"Why?" 

He  flushed. 

*'I  said  'see' — I  can't  see  you  at  all." 

"How  long  have  you  been  like  this?"  asked 
the  girl,  deprecatingly. 

"Nearly  three  weeks.    It  seems '* 

*'It  seems  a  year,  I  suppose?    It  must!" 

"Yes,"  said  Childers,  "it  seems  much  longer 
than  it  is.  I  daresay  I  shall  get  used  to  it  by- 
and-by,  but  a  day's  a  long  time  at  first;  I'm  all 
alone,  and  there's  nothing  to  do." 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        113 

'  It  must  be  awful,"  she  murmured. 

"Mr.  Childers  is  going  Home  very  soon,"  said 
Shepherd,  "and  then  all  of  us  poor  beggars'U  be 
jealous  of  him." 

"You  and  he  maj;^  meet  in  London,  madame," 
added  Teale.  "You'll  go  to  the  theatre  next 
time  madame  Duchene  plays  in  London,  won't 
you,  Childers?  Perhaps  she'll  let  you  call  on  her 
there,  too?" 

Polly  shifted  her  chair  irritably. 

"Will  you  be  able  to  go  about  in  London,  Mr. 
Childers?" 

"I  don't  know  many  people  in  England,"  he 
said;  "I'm  afraid  not.  I  shall  be  in  Dulwich, 
with  my  mother." 

"But  you  will  make  friends,"  she  urged; 
"won't  you?  You  won't  be  tied  to  the  house 
always?" 

"I  shan't  be  very  lively  company;  I  don't  sup- 
pose many  men'U  ])e  anxious  to  be  my  friends." 

"Ah,  well,"  exclaimed  Teale,  "  'a  boy's  best 
friend  is  his  mother!"    Ain't  she,  madame?" 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Polly,  springing  up,  "I'm 
sure  you  two  would  like  a  cigar  on  the  stoep! 
Don't  move,  Mr.  Childers.  They'll  come  back 
to  you." 

Johnny  Teale  stared. 

"You  would  like  a  cigar  on  the  stoep,**  she 


114.    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

repeated.  And  as  it  was  evident  that  she  meant 
to  be  obeyed,  they  said  that  it  was  a  very  kind 
suggestion,  and  withdrew.  Teale  consoled  him- 
self with  the  idea  that  they  were  to  be  afforded 
a  view  of  Willy  on  his  knees. 

She  did  not  speak  for  some  moments  after  the 
door  closed.  She  sat  in  the  chair  that  Teale  had 
vacated,  with  her  back  to  the  window.  Her  ex- 
pression had  changed  and  her  face  was  quite  soft. 

"Are  you  pleased  they've  gone?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  Willy,  simply. 

"So'm  I.  I  want  to  talk  to  you — I  like  you. 
Do  you  know,  I  never  was  so  sorry  for  anybody 
in  the  world  before?" 

"You  make  me  feel  almost  glad  I'm  blind. — 
I've  prayed  that  I  might  talk  to  you  one  day.  I 
used  to  pray  to  see  you,  too.  But  that's  impos- 
sible now.     That  night "  He  paused,  afraid. 

"What  night?"  said  the  girl. 

"Your  first  night  here.     You  know,  I  wasn't 

blind  then,  and Oh,  it's  like  a  dream!    Is  it 

really  you  I'm  telling  it  to?" 

"It's  me,"  said  Poll  Patchouli,  her  eyes  shin- 
ing.   "And  what?" 

"I  came  away  praying  to  be  great,  just  to 
have  the  right  to  meet  you.  I've  always  wanted 
to  succeed,  of  course — ever  since  I  was  a  child; 
but  that  night  it  was  different.    It  was  to  know 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        115 

you  ...  to  hear  you  say  you  had  read  my  verse 
...  to  feel  there  was  a  sort  of — a  sort  of  sym- 
pathy between  us.    Are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  him.  She 
had  given  her  hand  to  many  men,  but  never 
quite  like  that.  Willy  had  a  wild  impulse  to  lift 
it  to  his  hps,  but  did  not  do  so — afraid  again. 
She  had  hoped  that  he  would. 

"Do  you  like  me  as  much  as  you  thought  you 
were  going  to?"  she  asked,  after  a  silence. 

"Yes,"  said  Willy;  "you're  just  what  I  was 
sure  you  must  be." 

"Really?" 

"Really!" 

"That's  good!"  she  said,  smearing  a  tear  off 
her  cheek  with  the  hand  that  was  not  resting  on 
him.     "Shall  you  come  again — I  mean  alone?" 

"May  I?"  he  cried.  "Do  you  mean  it?  Oh, 
but  how  can  I — I  forgot!  I  can't  go  anywhere 
alone  any  more.  This  is  the  first  time  I've  been 
out  since  I  lost  my  sight — Teale  and  Ted  Shep- 
herd offered  to  bring  me." 

"The  beasts!"  said  Poll  PatchouH  in  her 
throat. 

"If  I  may  come  again  with  them ?" 

"No,  don't  do  that!  Where  do  you  live?  Per- 
haps one  day,  as  you're  all  by  yourself,  Fll  come 


116    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

and  see  you.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  talk  about 
it,  if  I  do.    I No,  I  never  shall  cornel" 

"Why?  Why  not?  I  won't  speak  a  word  of 
it  to  a  soul  if  you  don't  wish  me  to ;  but  it  would 
be  a  charity — I'm  sure  you'd  have  no  need  to 
mind.    Oh,  I'd  bless  you,  madame!    Please  1" 

"Why  do  you  like  me?"  she  said  sullenly.  "You 
must  be  an  awful  fool  to  like  a  woman  you  don't 
know !" 

"I  do  know  you  now,'*  he  faltered,  shrinking. 
"And  besides " 

"Besides — what?"  said  Polly. 

"I  had  seen  you  on  the  stage;  is  that  nothing?" 

"Never  mind  the  stage.  Imagine  you've  only 
seen  me  here  to-day." 

"Well?" 

"You  want  me  to  come?'* 

"I  implore  you  to!" 

"Oh,  yes,  because  I'm  Duchene!  If  I  weren't 
a  great  actress,  you  wouldn't  care  a  button 
whether  I  was  sorry  for  you  or  not.  Well,  what 
is  the  address?" 

"I'm  in  the  manager's  cottage — Mr.  Somer- 
set's cottage — on  the  works  of  the  Fortunatus 
Mining  Company,"  he  gasped.  "Any  driver '11 
take  you  to  it;  it's  in  Bultfontein." 

"I  know,"  she  said. 

"You  know?" 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        117 

"I  mean  I  have  heard  the  name.  No,  my  ac- 
quaintance with  the  Diamond  Fields  is  not  so 
extensive  as  all  that,  monsieur!  But  I  will  find 
it,  and  I  will  come." 

Her  accent  was  much  more  marked  in  the  last 
sentence  than  it  had  been  a  few  mo:i:ents  ago, 
but  its  resumption  was  unnecessary ;  the  first  im- 
pression had  been  all-powerful,  and  he  was  drunk 
with  delight. 

Indeed,  when  the  entertainment  was  over,  he 
was  the  only  one  who  was  entirely  satisfied  with 
it.  Jolmny  Teale  and  his  party  felt  that  the  hoax 
had  "panned  out  less  brilliantly  than  it  had 
promised";  and  Polly,  alone  in  her  room,  threw 
herself  on  the  bed  and  cried  miserably,  without 
knowing  why. 


It  was  significant  that  she  did  not  call  upon 
him  for  three  days,  though  she  wanted  to  do  so 
very  much.  It  was  significant  also  that,  when 
she  did  go,  she  put  on  her  prettiest  hat  and  frock 
and  made  herself  look  as  dainty  as  she  could, 
though  her  host  would  not  be  able  to  see  her. 
Her  visit  intensified  that  strange  emotion  to  her, 
pity  for  a  man.  And  the  step,  once  taken,  she 
went  again — without  vacillating.    And  Bad  Shil- 


118      THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

ling  was  despatched  for  meals  for  two  from  the 
Carnarvon;  and  their  afternoons  were  so  pleas- 
ant that  sometimes  before  they  parted,  stars 
were  in  the  sky. 

There  was  now  demanded  of  the  girl  an  infin- 
itely more  difficult  achievement  than  that  re- 
quired of  her  at  the  Royal  Hotel ;  she  found  her- 
self expected  to  realise,  and  respond  to  an  artist's 
aspirations.  She  could  not  do  it,  quite.  But  if 
she  simulated  more  comprehension  of  them  than 
she  could  feel,  she  did,  by  degrees,  come  to  gain 
a  glimmer  of  the  blaze  within  him,  too.  She  had 
to  strain  for  it  hard  at  first — so  hard  that  she  was 
surprised  at  her  own  patience;  many  of  his  con- 
fidences were  meaningless  to  her,  foreign.  Why 
should  he  await  an  answer  from  the  publishers 
with  such  suspense,  when  he  didn't  expect  much 
money  even  if  they  took  the  book?  But  during 
those  long  afternoons  and  evenings,  while  Willy 
talked  to  "Rosa  Duchene"  as  he  had  never 
thought  to  find  himself  talking  to  anyone,  Polly 
sat  opposite  him  in  the  rocking-chair,  with  atten- 
tive eyes,  learning  a  lesson. 

Once,  just  as  she  was  leaving,  Blake  Somerset 
came  in.  He  had  heard  that  his  nephew  was  re- 
ceiving visits  from  a  "lady"  in  the  cottage,  and 
guessing  who  the  lady  must  be,  intended  to  put 
a  stop  to  them.    He  was  rather  ashamed  of  him- 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        119 

self  for  having  allowed  the  joke  to  be  played  at 
all,  and  the  discovery  of  the  lengths  to  which  it 
had  been  carried  annoyed  him. 

Polly  started  in  alarm,  but  Childers,  who  had 
no  cause  to  be  embarrassed,  performed  what  he 
believed  to  be  the  ceremony  of  introduction  with 
perfect  calmness. 

"I  don't  think  you  have  met  my  uncle,"  he 
said;  "have  you?  ]Mr.  Somerset — inadame  Du- 
chene." 

Somerset  was  about  to  answer  with  a  brutal 
laugh,  but  a  gesture  from  the  girl  checked  him. 

When  they  were  outside,  and  out  of  earshot, 
she  stopped  and  looked  at  him  appealingly. 

"Are  you  going  to  give  me  away?"  she  said. 
"Are  you  going  to  tell  him?  Don't!  I'm  not 
doing  any  harm.     Please  don't  tell  him!" 

"This  is  damned  nonsense!"  exclaimed  Somer- 
set. "The  boy's  an  ass,  but  you've  no  right  to 
have  a  game  like  this  with  him,  you  know;  it 
won't  do!" 

"I'm  not  doing  any  harm,"  she  insisted,  "real- 
ly! Of  course  it's  a  beastly  shame  in  one  way, 
but — but  it  does  cheer  him  up.  You  must  see 
for  yourself  how  much  brighter  he  is.  And — 
and  if  you  tell  him,  you'll  break  his  heart." 

"Rats!"  said  Somerset.  "Don't  talk  such 
piffle!" 


120    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"You'll  break  his  heart !"  she  flared  out.  "Not 
that  you'd  mind  much,  I  suppose,  if  you  did. 
Well,  go  back  and  do  it.  Go  in  and  say,  'That 
isn't  Rosa  Duchene  who  comes  to  see  you ;  it's  a 
girl  they  call  "Poll  Patchouli"  and  everybody's 
been  kidding  you.'  Go  on!  Then  you  won't 
have  to  take  him  to  England — because  he^ll  be 
buried  here  before  you  start;  and  it'll  be  you 
who'll  have  killed  him,  as  sure  as  a  gun!" 

"D'ye  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Somerset  blankly, 
"that  you  think  he'll  never  find  out?  You  must 
be  as  daft  as  he  is,  you  little  fool.  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  / 
don't  care;  do  as  you  like — it  can't  last  long, 
that's  one  thing!    When  are  you  coming  again?" 

"I'm  coming  to-morrow,"  said  Polly.  "And 
if  you  think  it  all  so  shocking,  I  wonder  you  let 
those  swine  bring  him  to  my  room.  At  all  events, 
I  don't  guy  him,  as  you  meant  me  to." 

Then  she  jumped  up  into  the  "cart"  and  drove 
away.  And  Somerset  dropped  into  the  Club  and 
told  Teale  that,  "funny  as  it  sounded,  he  believed 
that  girl  was  mashed  on  the  boy" ;  and  the  posse 
of  conspirators  sat  and  viewed  the  development 
of  their  plot  with  open  mouths. 

She  meant  her  deception  to  conclude  with  the 
actress's  departure;  and  it  was  only  when  the 
time  came  that  she  perceived  how  strange  a  hold 
the  deception  had  established  on  her — how  much 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        121 

she  liked  the  young  man  who  talked  to  her  of 
things  that  she  had  never  heard  talked  of  before. 
The  temptation  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted; 
and,  prompted  by  the  fact  that  Duchene's  season 
had  been  extended  for  a  week,  she  told  him,  when 
she  went  on  the  morrow,  that  it  had  been  extend- 
ed for  six  weeks. 

Childers'  joy  was  pitiful  to  behold.  He  had 
been  happier  of  late,  in  his  blindness,  than  he  had 
ever  been  when  he  had  sight;  the  sudden  news 
that  his  paradise  would  endure,  when  the  groan 
of  its  closing  gates  was  already  in  his  soul,  was 
a  relief  so  intense  that  its  outcome  frightened 
her. 

From  the  beginning  she  had  been  aware  that 
he  was  in  love  with  her;  but  now  she  saw  how 
wildly  he  was  in  love,  and  she  was  aghast.  Her 
life  had  not  accustomed  her  to  regard  sexual  at- 
traction as  a  serious  matter.  Though  she  had 
not  continued  to  view  her  imposture  lightlj^  she 
had  not  grasped  the  full  responsibility  of  it  till 
then. 

She  gazed  at  him  wildly,  with  trembling  lips, 
like  a  child  who  has  smashed  something. 

"Are  you  so  glad,"  she  faltered — "so  glad  as 
all  that?" 

The  consciousness  crept  through  her,  as  she 
asked  it,  that  she,  too,  was  glad — not  in  the  friv- 


122    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

olous  way  that  she  had  thought,  hut  as  a  woman 
is  glad  to  remain  with  a  man  who  has  grown 
dear  to  her.  She  moved  slowly  over  to  him,  and 
took  his  hands  down  from  his  face,  and  dropped 
on  her  knees  before  him — wondering  at  them 
both. 

"Willy,"  she  whispered,  "say  something — I 
love  you!'* 

He  couldn't  answer.  But  she  felt  what  she 
had  done.  And  she  forgot  then  that  the  whole 
thing  was  a  lie — forgot  what  an  exclamation 
would  burst  from  him  if  he  could  see  her.  It  was 
her  own  kisses  that  he  was  returning;  it  was  her 
own  clasp  that  made  him  shake  like  that ! 

The  deception  had  gone  further  still,  and  there 
began  for  the  blind  man  a  period  in  which  he 
tasted  all  the  triumphant  rapture  of  possessing 
a  beautiful  and  celebrated  woman  whom  he 
adored.  When  he  embraced  Polly,  his  delusion 
gave  him  Rosa  Duchene  in  his  arms ;  when  Polly 
clung  about  him  it  was  Duchene's  touch  that 
thrilled  his  blood  and  Duchene's  lips  that  burned. 
He  lavished  on  Polly  the  madness  of  the  passion 
that  Duchene  had  inspired ;  he  saw  with  his  brain 
the  form  of  the  famous  woman  that  intoxicated 
him,  while  Polly  the  insignificant  was  lying  on 
his  heart. 

The  ecstasy  of  the  delusion  dizzied  him.    Rosa 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        123 

Duchene  was  his  own;  visited  him  daily;  vowed 
she  was  wretched  when  they  were  apart!  She, 
a  genius,  renowned  all  the  world  over,  discussed 
with  him  the  prospects  of  his  poems'  acceptance 
and  entered  into  his  hopes  and.fears!  Why  was 
he  a  nonentity  ?  If  only  he  could  climb  nearer  to 
worthiness ! 

One  afternoon,  a  fortnight  later,  when  Polly 
went  to  the  post-office  to  inquire  if  there  was  any- 
thing for  him,  she  found  that  the  publishers'  re- 
ply had  at  last  arrived.  She  saw  their  name  on 
the  envelope ;  and  a  roll  of  manuscript,  which  the 
clerk  handed  to  her  also,  showed  that  the  work 
was  declined.  She  took  the  things,  almost  as 
disconsolate  as  her  lover  would  be,  and  wondered, 
on  her  way  to  the  cottage,  how  she  was  to  break 
the  news  to  him,  how  she  could  be  gentle  enough. 

He  had  come  out  on  the  stoep  to  listen  for  her. 
He  knew  where  she  had  been,  and  the  eagerness 
on  his  face  made  the  words  that  she  had  to  speak 
more  difficult  to  her  still. 

"Dearest!"  said  Childers — and  waited. 

"There's  a  letter,"  said  Polly,  reluctantly;  "I 
haven't  opened  it  yet."  The  rejected  manuscript 
oppressed  her ;  she  put  it  down  on  the  table  with 
her  sunshade. 

"From  them?" 

"Yes." 


124.    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Read  it,"  he  begged,  breathlessly.  "Read  it, 
Rosa,  for  Heaven's  sake!" 

She  opened  the  envelope,  looking  not  at  it,  but 
at  him.  It  was  hateful  that  it  should  be  she  who 
had  to  bring  the  disappointment!  The  colour 
was  fluttering  in  his  cheeks,  and  the  thin  hands 
held  out  towards  her  quivered.    Suppose  she  told 

him  a  fib  ?    Suppose  she  said 1    He  couldn't 

see  the  answer!  As  the  notion  flashed  into  her 
mind  she  caught  her  breath ;  and  Willy  heard  her. 

"They've  taken  it?"  he  exclaimed. 

She  was  trying  confusedly  to  discern  what  dif- 
ficulties such  a  falsehood  would  entail,  but  his 
question  decided  her — she  could  not  crush  him 
with  the  truth  after  that ! 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "they  have  tak- 
en it." 

"Rosa,  Rosa!  Oh,  my  God!  Read  it  to  me! 
What  do  they  say?" 

"They  say.  .  .  .  Oh,  darling,  I  am  so  glad  for 
you,  so  glad!  Willy,  aren't  you  happy?  I  told 
you  it'd  be  all  right,  now  didn't  I?" 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"They  say How  can  I  see,  if  you  hold  me 

so  tight,  silly  boy?  It's  only  a  Hne.  'Dear  Sir, 
we  shall  be  pleased  to  publish  the  poems  you  have 
submitted.  They  will  be  .  .  .'  What  is  it? 
'They  will  be  brought  out  soon.'    That's  all.    So 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        125 

— so  perhaps  they  aren't  going  to  pay  you  for 
them;  but  you  won't  mind  that,  will  j^ou?  They'll 
pubhsh  them!  And  they  say  'pleased.'  They 
might  have  said  'willing,'  but  they  say  'pleased' !" 

To  her  the  communication  that  she  had  invent- 
ed sounded  very  meagre;  but  she  need  not  have 
striven  to  apologise  for  it.  To  him  the  bare  fact 
was  more  than  enough.  They  were  going  to 
bring  out  his  book.  He  would  hold  it — hug  it — 
and  "soon"!  He  had  been  craving  all  his  life, 
and  on  an  instant  Fortune  rained  favours  on  him 
with  both  hands.  Balzac's  expression  of  every 
artist's  praj^er  recurred  to  him,  "To  be  celebrat- 
ed! To  be  loved!"  He  marvelled — giddy  with 
exultation — that  he  could  be  so  calm  in  the  face 
of  miracles.  He  was  Rosa  Duchene's  lover  and 
now  his  Reveries  was  to  be  given  to  the  world! 
Then  a  frightful  misgiving  seized  him. 

"You  haven't  deceived  me — it's  true?"  he 
gasped. 

"It's  quite  true!"  cried  Polly.  "How  could 
you  think  such  a  thing?" 

They  embraced  again,  and  he  told  her  how 
proud  she  should  be  of  him  by-and-by. 

"You'll  'make'  me!"  he  panted.  "If  I  have 
written  these  before  I  knew  you,  what  shall  I 
do  now?  I  shall  be  great;  Rosa,  I  shall  be  great. 
The  man  you  love'll  be  known,  too — you'll  have 


126    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

done  it  for  me.  What  a  beautiful  world  we  live 
in;  and  it's  the  same  world  that  was  so  ugly  the 
other  day!  O  darling  Life,  it  blows  kisses  back 
to  me !  You  fill  me  with  emotions  and  ideas  that 
tumble  over  one  another.  I  shall  pour  them  out 
in  my  work — my  mind  and  heart  are  bursting 
sometimes,  too  small  to  hold  all  you  make  me 
feel.  I'll  dedicate  every  book  to  you — ^you  who'll 
have  inspired  them  all.  Oh,  thank  God  I'm  a 
poet !  To  worship  you  as  I  do  and  be  able  to  lay 
nothing  at  your  feet  would  have  been  torture." 

He  wandered  about  the  room,  with  her  arril 
round  him,  while  her  troubled  gaze  turned  from 
time  to  time  to  the  roll  of  manuscript  on  the  table. 

"Did  you  believe  I  was  an  artist  when  we  first 
met,"  he  broke  out  again,  "or  was  it  only  pity? 
Did  you  feel  we  had  something  in  common  dif- 
ferent from  the  others?  Oh,  how  vain  of  me  that 
sounds !  But  you  loiow — you  know  how  I  mean 
it!" 

'I  know,"  she  said. 

'And  you  did — you  did  feel  there  was  a  bond 
between  us?  Tell  me.  I  want  so  much  of  you, 
dearest !  I  want  more,  and  more,  and  more  every 
day.  I  want  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  and  more 
than  the  utmost.  It's  as  if  nature  hadn't  provid- 
ed for  such  a  love." 

"What  can  I  do?" 


"] 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        127 

"You  know  your  thoughts  before  you  speak 
them  !  I'm  jealous  of  that." 

"You're  mad!" 

He  nodded.  "I  daresay.  Nothing  satisfies 
me.  But  I  can't  see  you — if  you  knew  how  I 
strain!  I'd  give  my  right  arm  to  see  you  now. 
Turn  your  face  up,  and  let  me  try.  Great  God  I 
it's  a  wonderful  thing  to  be  a  woman — and  some- 
how it  doesn't  seem  enough  to  be  a  man.  One 
day  I'll  try  to  tell  you  all  I  feel  for  you.  If  I 
could  do  it,  it'd  be  the  finest  poem  ever  written. 
And  what  a  relief!" 

When  she  left,  the  moon  was  shining.  She 
slipped  the  manuscript  up  under  her  dust  cloak, 
and,  reaching  home,  hid  it  away  remorsefully  at 
the  bottom  of  her  box.  What  would  be  the  re- 
sult of  the  lie  she  had  told?  She  upbraided  her- 
self bitterly  for  her  cowardice.  But  now  for  him 
to  learn  that  his  work  was  rejected  would  be  a 
blow  unbearable!  Now,  whatever  happened,  he 
must  not  know ;  he  would  curse  her  I 


VI 

In  the  night  the  remembrance  struck  her  that 
she  had  left  the  note  in  his  possession;  she  was 
seized  with  the  terror  that  he  might  show  it  to 
Somerset  and  discover  the  truth  with  the  rudest 


128    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

shock  possible.  She  lay  tossing  restlessly,  and 
the  sun  had  scarcely  risen  when  she  drove  to 
Bultfontein,  with  a  face  of  ashes. 

Willy  was  not  visible.  He  was  dressing,  with 
the  aid  of  the  Kaffir  who  attended  on  him.  She 
sank  on  to  the  first  chair  inside  the  door  and  tried 
to  gather  voice  to  call  to  him. 

He  entered  from  the  bedroom  almost  at  the 
same  moment,  and  his  appearance  suggested  that 
the  catastrophe  had  occurred. 

His  greeting,  however,  dispelled  her  fear. 

"I've  had  news  about  my  mother,"  he  mur- 
mured; "she's  dead." 

The  mail  carrying  Childers'  poems  had  also 
brought  a  letter  to  Somerset.  Mrs.  Childers  had 
opportunely  died  of  pneumonia — avoiding  the 
arrival  of  a  son  who  had  had  no  proper  ambition, 
and  who  was  now  blind  besides.  Somerset  had 
had  a  long  talk  with  him  the  previous  night,  after 
Polly's  departure.  The  widow's  death  put  diffi- 
culties in  the  way  of  the  young  man's  return  to 
England.  The  manager  was  going  with  the  ob- 
ject of  enjoying  himself;  moreover  in  three  or 
four  months  he  was  to  be  back  on  the  Fortu- 
natus  works.  He  had  pointed  out  that  there 
would  now  be  nobody  to  take  charge  of  Willy  in 
London.  It  was  an  awkward  thing  to  determine 
what  was  to  become  of  him.    Seldom  had  a  young 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        129 

man  who  had  inherited  about  three  hundred  and 
fifty  a  year  been  such  an  encumbrance. 

All  these  facts  Childers  imparted  to  Polly. 

*'We  haven't  decided  what  I'm  to  do,"  he 
went  on.  "I  couldn't  stop  here  permanently, 
even  if  I  wanted  to;  I'm  bound  to  be  a  nuisance, 
you  see.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  for  a  fellow  like  me 
to  plump  himself  on  an  uncle  for  life." 

"Have  you  told  him  about  your  book?'* 

"No,  it  wouldn't  interest  him — and  we  talked 
about  my  mother's  death.  No,  I  didn't  say  any- 
thing about  it." 

"And  I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I  wouldn't  say  anything  to  a  soul  till 
it  is  printed.  Let  it  be  a  secret  between  us  two 
till  the  right  time  comes." 

"That's  what  I  thought,  darling,"  he  said; 
"yes." 

She  passed  the  day  between  relief  and  dismay. 
It  was  piteous  to  think  of  the  loneliness  of  his 
situation.  She  could  not  have  loved  him  more 
tenderly  if  she  had  been  his  wife;  the  further 
complication  that  had  arisen  to  harass  her  ap- 
peared, temporarily,  graver  than  anything  else. 

Willy  was  no  less  dismayed;  his  grief  for  the 
loss  of  his  mother  was  not  all.  He  longed  for 
Duchene  to  propose  his  travelling  to  England  by 
the  same  boat  as  herself,  to  say  that  she  would  be 


130    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

his  constant  companion  till  they  had  ascertained 
whether  an  operation  was  feasible.  This  way 
out  of  the  difficulty  must  have  presented  itself  to 
her,  he  thought;  but  she  had  not  suggested  it. 
And  for  him  to  do  so  was  impossible. 

A  little  constraint  crept  into  his  conversations 
with  the  girl  now;  and  while  she  inwardly  com- 
mented on  the  difference,  he  was  tremulously 
waiting,  in  every  pause,  for  her  to  make  the  of- 
fer that  had  never  entered  her  head.  Their  dream 
might  have  continued  in  England,  more  deli- 
ciously  than  he  had  ever  dared  to  hope,  and,  in- 
stead, they  were  to  be  divided  entirely,  by  her 
own  choice!  He  was  bitterly  wounded,  and  not 
even  the  anticipated  arrival  of  his  book — the  sub- 
ject on  which  he  chiefly  talked  with  her — ^was 
potent  to  banish  his  mortification. 

His  allusions  to  his  book  were,  indeed,  often 
perfunctory;  but  their  effect  on  his  listener  was 
disquieting  enough.  The  first  of  the  consequen- 
ces of  her  lie  was  already  at  hand  to  worry  her. 
She  repented  that  she  had  said  "soon"  in  her 
improvised  acceptance,  and  wondered  how  soon 
a  publisher's  "soon"  might  mean.  Childers  was 
equally  ignorant  on  the  point,  and  in  answer  to 
her  nervous  queries  he  said  that  the  copies  might 
reach  him  any  week. 

She  could  do  no  less,  after  this,  than  pretend 


THE  LAUHELS  AND  THE  LADY        131 

every  mail  day  to  go  to  the  post-office  to  inquire 
for  them,  and  affect  to  be  disappointed  when  she 
informed  him  that  nothing  had  come.  She 
groped,  perplexed,  in  the  labyrinth  that  she  had 
created,  questioning  helplessly  how  to  sustain  it. 
If  the  truth  were  exposed  at  this  stage  she  would 
have  done  him  the  cruellest,  the  most  cowardly 
wrong  imaginable,  and  she'd  make  away  with 
herself!  Her  only  excuse  for  the  deception  was 
that,  so  far,  it  had  been  successful.  If  the  tinith 
came  out,  after  all,  it  would  be  the  end  of  her: 
she'd  be  like  that  girl  in  Bultfontein  Road  who 
had  taken  carbolic  acid  the  other  day  and  been 
found  in  a  blue  heap  on  the  floor! 

After  each  mail  she  gave  thanks  for  another 
respite.  But  when  four  mails  had  been  delivered, 
she  feared  that  a  longer  delay  would  excite  his 
suspicions.  And,  facing  the  inevitable  with  the 
courage  of  despair,  she  nerved  herself  to  contem- 
plate the  boldest  stroke  that  she  had  planned  yet. 

While  she  was  perpending  it,  the  prospect  of 
Willy's  making  the  voyage  with  his  uncle  was 
extinguished  definitely.  Somerset  was  starting 
at  once,  at  a  couple  of  days'  notice,  for  a  very 
brief  trip  indeed.  His  subordinate  on  the  Fortu- 
natus  had  been  offered  a  better  appointment,  and 
it  was  necessary  for  the  manager's  vacation  to  be 
taken  while  the  other  was  still  on  the  works.    In 


132    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

the  circumstances,  Willy  would  be  more  than 
ever  a  burden. 

Somerset  explained  that  he  would  make  time 
to  see  the  solicitor  to  the  estate  and  endeavour  to 
arrange  for  the  boy  to  be  looked  after  in  London; 
there  were  always  fellows  going  over,  and  he 
could  travel  with  someone  else  later  on.  That  he 
himself  should  take  him  was  impossible. 

Willy  did  not  remonstrate.  But  the  end  of 
the  imaginary  extension  of  Rosa's  season  was 
terribly  near  now;  Rosa  Duchene,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  was  at  this  time  at  IMonte  Carlo,  dropping 
some  of  the  Diamond  Fields'  money  at  the  tables; 
and  he  felt  hopelessly  that  the  woman  he  loved 
was  fading  out  of  his  life  for  ever.  He  could 
have  cried  with  the  pain  of  it. 

He  sat  in  the  slip  of  a  sitting-room  the  night 
before  the  departure,  while  Somerset  banged  his 
portmanteaux  about  and  made  cheerful  remarks. 
Somerset  was  wondering  whether  he  should  drop 
a  hint  to  the  lad  about  Polly ;  he  decided  that  he 
would  ask  Ted  Shepherd  to  keep  an  eye  on  him, 
instead.  Willy  was  longing  for  him  to  be  gone 
— longing  to  be  free  to  abandon  himself,  unseen, 
to  his  misery. 

In  the  morning  he  felt  his  forlornness  less 
when  the  sound  of  the  "cart"  wheels  had  died 
away,  leaving  him  to  the  mercies  of  Bad  Shilling 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        133 

for  the  next  two  months,  than  he  had  done  while 
the  preparations  were  going  forward.  But  the 
consciousness  that  they  all  found  him  an  incubus 
was  bad  to  bear. 

His  welcome  to  Polly  when  she  appeared  was 
the  outcome  of  the  consciousness  and  alarmed 
her.  Having  taken  off  her  dust  coat  and  hat, 
and  tried  vainly  to  make  him  talk,  she  began  to 
prepare  their  tea. 

At  last,  glancing  at  him,  she  said  diffidently: 

*'Has  anything  happened — you  have  not  much 
to  say?    What's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  nothing  particular.  JNIy  uncle  has  gone, 
that's  all." 

"'Gone'?    Gone  where?" 

"To  England.  It  was  settled  two  days  ago; 
didn't  I  mention  it?" 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  didn't.  It's  strange  you 
forgot  to !  .  .  .  Then  you're  quite  alone  here  now 
— all  night,  too?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "all  night,  too." 

But  he  did  not  say  any  more;  and  with  a  stare 
of  puzzlement,  and  her  face  a  little  paler,  she 
stood  silent.  The  kettle  had  been  filled,  and  the 
wick  of  the  spirit-lamp  was  lighted;  she  stood 
waiting  for  the  water  to  boil. 

"It's  boiling,  Ilosa,"  said  Willy;  "I  can  hear 
it." 


134    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  else,"  she  said, 
starting.  .   .   .  "There!" 

After  a  moment's  struggle  with  himself  he 
asked,  "What  were  you  thinking  of?" 

"What's  the  difference?"  said  the  girl. 

"7  was  thinking,  too." 

"I  know!"  She  ran  to  him  impulsively  and 
bent  over  the  chair.  "We  aren't  the  same  to 
each  other!    What  is  it?    Tell  me!" 

He  laughed — or  sobbed:    "It's  you!" 

"Me?" 

"Oh!  don't  make  me  say  it!  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  I  shall  be  alone  in  this  Heaven- 
forsaken  hole — that,  for  all  one  can  see,  I  may 
end  my  life  in  it.  He's  gone,  and  you're  going. 
Picture  me  sometimes — you'll  always  be  able  to 
think  of  me  just  as  you  left  me.  That's  the  ad- 
vantage of  knowing  a  log!" 

"Willy!"  she  cried.  "What  do  you  mean? 
Why  do  you ?" 

"I  shall  see  more  of  Bad  Shilling  after  you're 
gone — if  he's  kind.  I  shall  learn  to  look  forward 
to  his  remembering  me  and  listen  for  his  black 
feet  on  the  boards,  as  I  used  to  listen  for  you. 
Has  'anything  happened'?    My  God!" 

"Why  do  you  talk  to  me  hke  this?"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Don't  you  think  I'm  sorry  enough 
for  you?    You  talk  as  if  I  could  help  it;  how  can 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        135 

I  help  it?    If  I  can,  tell  me  the  way!    I'll  do  it. 

I'd  love  to  do  it!     You  reproach  me  for  noth- 

•      I" 
mg! 

The  boy's  eyebrows  were  raised  significantly, 
and  she  flung  herself  on  him  in  a  whirlwind. 

"If  I  can  help  it,  tell  me  the  way!  You  shall 
tell  me.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean — I  swear 
I  don't.    I  won't  let  you  go  till  you  tell." 

"You— haven't  thought?" 

She  shook  her  head  vehemently. 

"So  why  don't  you  say?  Oh,  I  forgot — I  was 
shaking  my  head!  No,  no,  no;  I  dorit  know, 
Will!" 

"You'll  refuse  if  you  want  to?" 

"Answer!  Yes,  I'll  refuse  if  I  want  to.  An- 
swer!" 

"We — you  and  I — might  go  to  England  to- 
gether." 

Her  clasp  on  his  neck  loosened  and  she  lay  in 
his  arms  limp  with  dismay.  Tliis,  the  natural 
course  in  the  role  that  she  was  assuming,  was  a 
complication  utterly  unforeseen  by  her. 

"Go  together?"  she  gasped. 

"You  don't  wish  it?" 

"Yes,  yes!    I  do!    I  do!    But  how?" 

"It'd  be  quite  easy.  Let  your  company  go  on 
ahead,  and  we  can  follow  by  another  boat!  I've 
thought  of  everything.     In  that  drawer,  there's 


136    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

my  money — you'd  take  it  and  get  our  tickets  to 
Cape  Town.  I  don't  know  exactly  how  much 
money  there  is,  but  it's  nothing  like  enough  for 
our  passages,  and  when  we  got  down  to  the  Col- 
ony I  should  wire  to  the  lawyer,  and  he  could 
cable  me  out  a  hundred  or  two." 

"Go  on.  Will,"  muttered  Polly  feverishly,  "go 
on!" 

The  blessed  revelation  that  she  was  not  ex- 
pected to  pay  for  her  own  passage — a  thing  that 
would  have  been  as  impossible  for  her  as  to  buy 
the  Kimberley  Mine — had  brought  the  colour  to 
her  cheeks  again.  The  one  question  that  dizzied 
her  now  was,  how  could  she  sustain  his  belief  that 
she  was  the  actress  if  they  travelled  on  a  steamer 
full  of  people? 

"Well,  when  we  were  Home,  we  would  go  to 
a  great  oculist — somebody  who  sits  in  his  consult- 
ing-room and  charges  a  guinea  a  minute;  some-^ 
body  with  a  strange  manner  that  we  don't  like 
at  first,  and  who  doesn't  look  like  an  oculist  a  bit, 
but  is  marvellously  clever,  like  the  one  in  Poor 
Miss  Finch.  And  he'd  give  me  back  my  sight — • 
my  sight!  my  sight!  and  I  could  see  you  when 
we  kiss!" 

She  yearned  at  him,  pitiful  and  afraid. 

"To  think  it  should  never  have  struck  you! 
Rosa,  I've  been  breaking  my  heart  because  you 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        137 

didn't  suggest  it;  I  thought  you  didn't  care  for 
me  any  more,  that  you  had  grown  tired.  Won't 
it  be  glorious?  I  shall  see  your  beautiful  face 
close,  at  last,  and  it'll  be  you  who  helped  me  to 
do  it.  Sweetest,  tell  me  we  are  going!  It  seems 
too  wonderful  to  be  true." 

"We're  going,"  she  said.  She  put  her  hand 
through  the  open  window  and  pulled  at  the  wa- 
ter-bag. Roughly  made  of  canvas,  with  the  neck 
of  a  beer-bottle  inserted  for  a  spout,  it  hung  there 
to  render  the  mawkish,  lukewarm  water  fit  to 
drink.  The  iciness  of  its  contact  with  her  fore- 
head now  cleared  her  brain. 


VII 

Compared  with  this  new  and  stupendous  dif- 
ficulty, the  dreaded  need  for  meeting  his  demand 
for  the  copies  of  his  Reveries  appeared  a  simple 
matter  enough.  When  she  came  next,  she  placed 
a  parcel  on  his  knees  with  so  little  misgiving  that 
she  was  surprised  at  herself. 

The  poet  gave  a  cry  of  delight.  "My  book! 
It's  my  book!" 

She  told  him  to  cut  the  string;  but  his  fingers 
shook  and  he  couldn't  manage  it. 

"Oh,  I  can't!  .   .   .  You!" 

She  took  the  penknife  from  him ;  and  then  let 


138    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

him  unfold  the  wrappings  himself.  Six  volumes 
met  his  touch  with  an  electric  thrill — all  alike, 
but  each  to  be  caressed  apart  from  the  others, 
each  of  them  lovable  and  delicious.  How  deli- 
cate was  the  surface  that  he  stroked!  He  was 
holding  his  firstborn — and  he  thanked  God.  The 
emotion  was  the  true  emotion,  though  it  was  con- 
jured up  by  fraud;  it  was  the  bliss  of  ignorance, 
but,  none  the  less,  bliss.  He  was  holding  his 
firstborn,  and  Polly  had  given  him  a  joy  no 
meaner  than  Heaven  would  have  given  had  it 
granted  him  the  power  that  he  fancied  he  had 
displayed.  Six  copies  of  another  work,  and  im- 
agination were  as  potent  as  reality. 

"Tell  me  what  it's  like,"  he  whispered. 

"It  is,"  she  said,  "a  pale,  curious  fawn.  The 
edges  are  stained  a  deeper  shade,  and  the  name 
of  'William  Childers'  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  cov- 
er, a  little  to  the  right,  in  dark,  antique  lettering." 

"Let  me  trace  it!    Show  me  I" 

She  obeyed,  terrified,  watching  his  efforts 
breathlessly. 

"I  can't  make  it  out.  But  it  looks  well,  eh — 
it  looks  well?" 

"It  looks  beautiful,"  she  said. 

"The  paper's  thin,"  he  murmured;  "I  hoped 
they'd  give  me  better  paper." 

"It's  thin,"  she  confessed,  remorsefully,  *'but 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        139 

very  good  looking.  I  think  it  looks  more  un- 
common than  if  it  had  been  thick." 

"And  the  type — big?  Is  there  a  wide  mar- 
gm? 

"There's  a  very  wide  margin,"  asserted  Polly. 
"Give  me  your  finger  again — there,  all  that  is 
margin.  And  the  type's  splendid !  I  can  read  it 
from  here."  She  could;  she  could  read:  "The 
Norman  Conquest.  Edward  was  not  a  vigorous 
king;  he  had  little  authority,  while " 

He  cuddled  the  book,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh 
of  content. 

"Perhaps  soon  I  shall  be  able  to  see  it!  Rosa, 
when  do  we  go — need  we  wait  long?  I'm  on  fire ! 
But,  oh,  I'm  happy,  too — happy,  happy!  I'm 
happier  than  I  ever  hoped  to  be,  although  I've 
no  eyes.  Since  I  knew  you  my  whole  life  has 
changed.    How  can  I  repay  you?" 

Suddenly  a  passionate  desire  seized  him. 
"Read  me  the  first  poem,"  he  prayed.  "Read 
me  Sic  Itur  ad  Astra;  let  me  hear  Rosa  Duchene 
speak  my  verse!" 

She  stood  speechless.  Her  head  was  swim- 
ming. 

"Rosa!" 

"Wait!"  she  stammered;  "it's  new  to  me.  You 
are  a  poet,  and  it's  new  to  me.  Wait  till  I  know 
them,  Willy — I  have  a  reputation  to  lose." 


140    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

She  thanked  her  guiding  star  she  had  retained 
the  manuscript ;  and  he,  his  disappointment  pass- 
ing, thought  how  sweet  was  this  timidity  in  such 
a  woman.  He  told  her  his  thought,  with  tri- 
umphant tenderness.  She  resolved  that  he  should 
have  plenty  of  opportunities  for  the  triumph  in 
future. 

She  had  proposed  that,  on  the  journey  before 
them,  she  should  adopt  his  surname.  To  explain 
the  unavoidable  suggestion,  she  had  urged  that, 
while  Duchene's  features  might  be  familiar  to 
many,  Duchene's  name  would  be  known  to  all 
and  entail  perpetual  embarrassment.  In  agree- 
ing with  this,  he  had  removed  her  initial  anxiety 
from  her  mind. 

Freed  from  it,  she  made  the  needful  prepara- 
tions with  less  of  fright  in  her  soul.  And  now, 
since  they  were  to  go,  she  was  sometimes  eager 
for  them  to  be  gone  soon.  There  was  the  contin- 
gency that  a  man  might  drop  in  on  him  and  at 
the  final  instant  destroy  the  whole  fabric  of  the 
deception  that  she  had  weaved.  She  strove  to 
persuade  herself  that  she  might  preserve  her 
lover's  delusion  more  securely  where  she  had  only 
strangers  to  fear  than  she  could  have  done  on 
the  Diamond  Fields.  But  then  her  reason  mocked 
her  for  the  hope.  So  many  things  might  hap- 
pen!    She  dared  not  look  ahead.     Alternately 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        141 

she  longed  and  trembled  for  the  hour  that  was 
to  see  them  start.  She  was  fighting  pluckily, 
but  in  moments  the  enormity  of  the  undertaking 
to  which  she  had  set  her  hand  paralysed  her,  and 
at  every  step  she  seemed  called  upon  to  vanquish 
a  further  obstacle  that  had  not  been  suspected 
till  it  barred  the  way. 

When  the  morning  broke  at  last,  her  predom- 
inant sensation  was  pleasure.  Her  own  luggage 
was  ready,  and  while  Bad  Shilling  went  for  their 
breakfast  she  was  busy  packing  the  remaining 
things  of  Willy's.  She  was  still  on  her  knees, 
endeavouring  to  fasten  the  box,  while  Willy  sat 
on  it,  when  the  Boy  returned.  His  additional 
weight — for  he  was  a  "boy"  of  about  forty  years 
of  age,  weighing  twelve  stones — disposed  of  the 
matter;  and  they  sat  down  to  the  coffee  and 
steaks  at  the  untidy  table  gaily,  reminding  each 
other  that  it  was  for  the  last  time. 

The  negro  had  come  back  with  a  "cart";  and, 
the  meal  concluded,  they  made  haste  to  leave. 
As  they  mounted  to  their  seats,  the  doors  of  the 
cottage,  and  of  all  the  sheds  about  the  works, 
banged  violently;  the  long,  low  swishing  sound 
was  heard  that  heralded  a  dust-storm.  In  an- 
other minute  the  air  was  dark,  and  they  hid  their 
faces  to  shield  them  from  the  hissing,  stinging 
grit.     Such  dust-storms  were  of  constant  occur- 


142    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

pence,  but  in  this  one  the  little  Hottentot  driver 
appeared  to  read  a  warning,  for  he  lashed  for- 
ward the  horses  furiously.  They  gained  the  sta- 
tion before  the  rain  that  he  had  foreseen  began 
to  fall;  but  it  did  fall,  in  floods — sweeping  less 
fortunate  animals  off  their  feet;  and  Polly's 
cheerfulness  deserted  her  as  she  glanced  back 
into  the  deluge.  Superstitiously  she  felt  that  the 
adventure  had  opened  under  ominous  conditions. 

VIII 

HovTEVER,  the  thirty  odd  hours  in  the  train 
were  uneventful,  and  they  reached  Cape  Town 
safely.  Again  both  were  exhilarated.  The  com- 
parative freshness  of  the  atmosphere;  to  her,  the 
sparkle  of  the  sea  beyond  the  jetty;  and  to  him, 
the  scent  of  it;  the  odour  of  flowers,  and  the 
rustle  of  trees,  were  delicious  after  the  desert  that 
they  had  left. 

And  he  drove  in  a  hansom  again — a  white 
hansom,  with  a  coloured  di'iver  truly,  but  a  han- 
som !  They  went  straight  to  a  little  inn,  of  which 
Polly  had  heard,  outside  the  town.  It  seemed 
to  her  to  be  almost  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
whose  squareness  broke  off  so  sharply  against 
the  intense  blue  sky;  and,  obtaining  rooms,  they 
sat  down  and  smiled  at  each  other  in  delight. 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        143 

"How  clean  everything  feels,"  said  Willy — 
*'tlie  towels,  and  the  chair-covers.    It's  jolly." 

She  had  been  thinking  so,  too.  Inside,  it  was 
clean,  and  outside  it  was  green  and  tranquil.  The 
road  that  the  hostel  overlooked  was,  at  this  part, 
an  avenue  of  firs,  glinting  here  and  there  with 
branches  of  the  silver-leaves  that  are  sent  to  Eng- 
land as  birthday  cards,  with  stiff  little  views,  or 
sentiments  painted  on  them.  Presently  a  ]\Ialay 
maidservant — a  starched,  white  triangle  from  the 
arm-pits  down,  with  a  bright  silk  fez  upon  her 
head — came  in  with  their  dinner,  and  they  tasted 
fruit  once  more;  not  fruit  as  it  was  procurable 
in  Kunberley,  but  luscious  peaches,  and  purple 
figs,  and  a  watermelon  plucked  since  an  hour. 
They  sat  dawdhng  over  their  coffee  by  the  win- 
dow while  the  moon  rose,  and  now  and  again  the 
thrum  of  a  banjo  was  borne  to  them  on  the  still- 
ness. And  Childers  smoked  a  cigarette,  because 
the  situation  seemed  to  call  for  one,  though  he 
enjoyed  it  only  with  his  fingers  now. 

In  the  morning  they  took  one  of  the  trains  that 
pottered  between  the  suburbs  and  Cape  Town, 
and  sent  the  cablegram  to  the  solicitor.  But  they 
were  not  impatient  for  the  money  to  arrive.  They 
contemplated  with  fortitude  the  two  or  three 
days  that  they  would  have  to  pass  here. 

When  the  answer  came  and  they  left  the  bank 


144    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

with  a  roll  of  notes  in  Polly's  pocket,  they  went 
to  the  office  of  the  company  that  had  a  boat  sail- 
ing next,  to  engage  their  passages ;  and  here  they 
met  with  their  first  disappointment.  All  the 
berths  were  booked,  and  it  was  necessary  for 
them  to  wait  for  the  Union  steamer,  which  left 
a  week  later. 

It  was  disconcerting,  but  it  couldn't  be  helped- 
After  all,  they  were  comfortable  at  the  inn,  and 
though  Childers  experienced  more  regret  than 
Polly,  he  was  not  very  seriously  chagrined,  ei- 
ther. They  walked  home  talking,  for  it  was  an 
agreeable  walk  after  one  had  passed  the  smell 
of  the  tannery  at  Papendorp.  He  spoke  of  the 
suspense  in  which  he  waited  to  learn  how  the 
critics  received  Reveries — the  humiliation  he 
would  feel  if  they  sneered  at  it.  And  then  the 
girl  told  him  how  the  scene  about  them  looked; 
of  the  fields  of  arum  hlies  despised  like  butter- 
cups in  England;  of  the  clusters  of  maidenhair- 
fern  fluttering  in  every  hedge. 

"Look!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh!  I'm  sorry.  .  .  . 
I  mean  how  sweet  this  is,  Will,  this  villa.  Those 
high  cactuses — cacti,  what  is  it? — divide  us  from 
the  garden,  but  here,  at  the  gate,  one  can  see  in. 
The  lawn  is  yellow  with  loquat  trees,  and  crim- 
son with  japonicas.  It's  all  patches  of  colour, 
and  shadow.    And  it's  got  a  perfect  duck  of  a 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        145 

stoep,  and Oh,  a  lovely  old  negi'ess  with 

white  hair,  who's  coming  down  to  us!  Let's  go 
on — she'd  bother  us  to  go  over  it,  perhaps — it's 
to  let." 

"We  shall  find  a  difference  when  we  get  to 
London,  shan't  we?"  he  said.  "Fancy  it!  Jan- 
uary! The  cold,  the  wet;  the  bustling  crowds 
in  the  foggy  streets,  and  the  mud-carts,  slopping 
over.    What  a  contrast!" 

"London  has  got  suburbs,  too.  Dulwich, 
where  you  lived,  is  a  suburb,  isn't  it  ?  It  wouldn't 
be  like  that  if  we  went  to  Dulwich?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "we  shouldn't  find  crowds  in 
Dulwich,  because  the  people  who  live  there  never 
go  out;  and  there'd  be  no  mud-carts,  because  in 
deadly  Dulwich  the  mud  is  never  cleared  away. 
But  its  long,  dreary,  desolate  roads  aren't  like 
this  one  in  the  least." 

Cape  Town  appeared  to  him,  in  spite  of  his 
affliction,  much  more  attractive  now  than  it  had 
done  eighteen  months  before,  when  he  saw  it.  The 
thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  turn  their 
enforced  delay  to  account  by  consulting  one  of 
its  medical  men  and  obtaining  a  second  and  more 
authoritative  opinion.  He  mentioned  the  idea 
to  Polly,  and  she  ascertained  that  the  best  man  to 
whom  he  could  go  was  an  Englishman — Dr. 
Eben  Drysdale. 


146    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

They  heard  very  encouraging  accounts  of  his 
ability.  Though  not  a  specialist  he  had  effected 
some  remarkable  cures  in  ophthalmic  cases,  it  waa 
said ;  and  after  Pollj^  had  written  for  an  appoint- 
ment, Willy  grew  more  and  more  excited  at  the 
prospect  of  the  visit. 

The  girl  herself  did  not  know  what  to  desire. 
As  they  mounted  the  steps  of  the  house,  her  knees 
knocked  together.  To  hope  the  man  might  say 
that  no  operation  would  succeed  sounded  so 
heartless  that  she  was  ashamed  to  look  at  Willy 
while  her  struggle  with  the  hope  was  going  on; 
yet  for  his  sight  to  be  restored  would  mean  a 
tragedy  for  them  both.  She  often  ])rayed,  though 
to  many  it  may  sound  improbable;  and  she 
shaped  an  inward,  irresolute  prayer  as  they  stood 
waiting  to  be  admitted.  She  said,  "O  God,  You 
know  all  about  it — help  me  to  want  the  thing 
that  he'll  like  best!'* 

In  appearance  Dr.  Drysdale  was  not  impres- 
sive. 

When  Willy  had  finished  explaining,  he  said: 

"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure!  And  you're  on  your 
way  back  to  the  old  country,  eh  ?  Well,  let's  see, 
let's  have  a  look."  He  put  on  a  strange  contriv- 
ance and  examined  the  eyes  through  a  peephole 
in  it.  .  .  .  "And  how  long  is  it  since  the  trouble 
began?" 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        147 

"My  sight  has  been  weak  for  a  long  while. 
It's  been  getting  very  bad  for  the  last  eight 
months ;  and  about  nine  weeks  ago  it  failed  alto- 
gether. At  least,  I  wore  a  shade  for  a  few  days, 
and  then " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Dr.  Drj^sdale. 

"Can  anything  be  done?"  asked  Polly. 

The  doctor  pondered.  "Well,  I  wouldn't  say 
that  no  one  over  there  would  advise  an  operation. 
You  might  go  to  Pholett,  or  to  Maclntyre — I 
daresay  JNIacIntjTe  might  do  it — and  it's  possible 
it  might  be  partially  successful.  But  .  .  .  Your 
husband?'* 

She  bowed. 

"The  question  is  whether  it's  good  enough  for 
him  to  go  to  England  on  the  chance.  iVnyhow, 
I  shouldn't  recommend  him  to  live  there." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Willy,  heavily. 

"It  wouldn't  do  your  lungs  any  good,  you 
know.  Here,  you've  everything  in  your  favour. 
My  ad\ace  to  you's  to  stay  where  you  are.  .  •  . 
Let's  tap  you  about  a  bit;  you  might  take  off 
your  coat  and  waistcoat  .  .  .  yes,  and  your  shirt,, 
too.  Now  then,  draw  a  deep  breath.  ... 
Again." 

"My  lungs  aren't  strong,"  stammered  Willy. 
"I  know ;  they  never  have  been.  But  what  you're 
implying's  news  to  me." 


148    THE  JVIAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Polly  rose  in  consternation. 

"Do  you  mean  that  he's  ill,  doctor — ^very  iU?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Dr.  Drysdale,  suddenly  eva- 
sive, "that  I  wouldn't  recommend  England  foi* 
him,  that's  all.  It  isn't  a  climate  that  we  choose 
when  there's  a  tendency  to  any  pulmonary  com- 
plaint, and — and,  as  your  husband  says,  his  lungs 
aren't  exactly  strong." 

There  was  a  pause  that  lasted  some  time. 

"We  may  as  well  go,"  said  Childers,  at  last; 
"I'm  glad  to  have  had  your  opinion.  Good- 
morning." 

But  as  Polly  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  he 
turned  and  spoke  to  the  doctor  hurriedly  on  the 
threshold. 

"I  want  it  straight,  please!"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "If  I  live  in  England,  how  long  shall  I 
last?" 

"One  can't  say,"  said  the  other,  deprecatingly; 
"Nature  at  times " 

"Roughly?    I'm  not  a  child!    How  long?" 

"So  far  as  I  can  judge,  from  a  cursory  exami- 
nation, I  should  give  you  about  two  years." 

"Good  God!    And  here?" 

"Here?  With  care,  and  if  you  avoid  excite- 
ment, you  may  live  for  ten.  JMore!  But  you 
must  avoid  excitement,  mind!" 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        149 

The  girl  was  coming  back,  eager  to  miss  noth- 
ing; Willy  heard  the  frou-frou  of  her  skirt. 

*'If  I  can't  avoid  excitement,"  he  questioned, 
desperately — "if  that's  impossible?" 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"you  won't  live  so  long." 


IX 

Willy  and  Poll  Patchouli  left  the  house 
silently.  She  could  not  express  her  comprehen- 
sion in  words,  and  she  loathed  the  passers-bj^  that 
prevented  her  taking  him  to  her  heart.  To  him 
the  shock  was  awful.  Now  he  knew  the  meaning 
of  various  sensations  that  he  had  set  down  to 
"lassitude"  and  "depression"! 

She  squeezed  the  hand  that  rested  on  her  arm. 

"My  poor  boy!"  she  said. 

"It's — it's  rather  hard  lines,  isn't  it?" 

She  noted  absently  the  brutal  blue  of  the  sky, 
the  fierceness  with  which  the  bay  sparkled.  The 
noise  of  a  little  traffic  in  the  road  was  deafening. 

"You  must  stop  in  Cape  Town  and  get  well," 
she  murmured.  .  .  .  "Are  we  going  back  by 
train?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  drearily.  ...  "I  suppose  so." 

His  thought  was,  not  that  his  sight  was  lost  for 
ever;  not  that  England  would  never  now  be  any- 


150    THE  ]\iAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

thing  to  him  but  a  memory  It  was,  that  she 
and  he  must  separate.  She  would  go — perhaps 
a  little  later  than  they  were  to  have  gone  to- 
gether; perhaps  much  later.    But  she  would  go! 

"It  seems  that  it  was  fated,"  he  said, 

"What  was  fated?" 

He  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  she  must  be 
thinking  of  the  same  thing.  But  she  was  sufFer- 
ing  with  her  own  identity  and  had  not  remem- 
bered to  view  the  situation  as  Duchene. 

"Why,  that  you  were  to  leave  me  out  here, 
after  all." 

"Leave  you?"  Then  realising  the  position,  she 
was  staggered.  Would  Duchene  leave  him?  Or 
would  she  stay,  regardless  of  everything  else? 
She  didn't  know!  It  looked  to  her  impossible 
that  Bosa  Duchene  would  renounce  her  career 
and  become  the  jest  of  Europe,  in  order  to  re- 
main with  Willy  in  Cape  Town.  .  .  .  But 
mightn't  it  look  impossible  because  Rosa  Duchene 
was  nothing  but  a  great  name  to  her?  She  was 
a  woman,  too.  If  a  great  woman  loved  him  just 
as  much,  wouldn't  she  now  be  suffering  just  as 
much — wouldn't  she  ache  to  stay  with  him  just 
as  much  as  she  herself  was  aching?  ...  It  was 
so  difficult!    "We  must  think  about  it,"  she  said. 

Would  consent  entail  discovery — or  was  his 
belief  in  the  actress's  devotion  equal  to  accept- 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        151 

ing  such  a  sacrifice  without  suspicion?  As  the 
train  bore  them  homeward,  she  sat  staring  from 
the  window,  asking  herself  the  question.  She 
was  now  gi-ateful  for  the  presence  of  strangers; 
she  did  not  want  to  speak. 

On  the  platform  Willy  exclaimed: 

"What  do  I  care — we'll  go  together  all  the 
same!  I'd  rather  be  with  you  and  die,  Rosa, 
than  be  left  alone  and  live.  Don't  let's  think 
about  it  any  more;  we'll  go  as  we'd  arranged!" 

"Are  you  mad?"  she  cried. 

He  persisted,  but  she  would  not  listen  to  him. 
And  all  the  afternoon  she  waited — trying  to  per- 
ceive whether  he  was  ready  to  receive  the  sug- 
gestion that  she  craved  to  make. 

During  the  evening  both  were  very  quiet.  She 
had  wheeled  her  armchair  to  the  sofa  where  he 
lay,  and  stooped  from  time  to  time  to  kiss  him. 
But  her  sympathy  seemed  empty  to  him  without 
the  words  that  he  was  yearning  to  hear;  and  to 
herself,  till  the  words  were  spoken,  the  caresses 
that  she  could  not  restrain  seemed  almost  an  in- 
sult. 

"When  shall  you  sail?"  he  asked,  breaking  a 
long  silence. 

"When  you  are  tired  of  me,"  she  answered. 

"Ah!    You'll  go  before  then!" 

"Really?" 


152    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Coquetry  appeared  heartless  to  him.  He  won- 
dered at  her. 

"For  the  first  time  I  wish  you  were  a  nobody; 
I've  been  too  vain,  perhaps,  of  being  loved  by 
Rosa  Duchene.  Now  I'm  punished  for  it — it's 
your  position  that  comes  between  us.  Her  lover, 
or  her  career — ^what  woman  would  hesitate?" 

He  did  not  know  it,  but  in  his  tone  was  the 
reproach  that  was  her  clue.  She  shivered  with 
joy  before  she  spoke. 

*'I  can't  tell  you  what  woman  would  hesitate," 
she  said,  with  a  laugh. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  faltered. 

"Supi^osing "  she  said,  twisting  a  piece  of 

his  hair  round  her  finger. 

"'Supposing'?"  he  echoed,  breathlessly. 

"Supposing  that  once  upon  a  time  there  was 
an  actress  who  came  to  South  Africa  and  met  a 
man  she  was  fool  enough  to  like  very  much — to 
love  very  much — to  love  as  I  love  you!  Suppose 
they  had  meant  to  go  to  London  together,  and 
then, — one  morning,  learnt  that  the  boy  was  too 
ill — that  the  woman  must  give  up  everything  to 
stay  with  him,  or  go  away  alone  and  give  up 
him?  If  through  that  first  dreadful  day  she 
wasn't  able  to  decide — if  just  at  first  she  did  hesi- 
tate; if  she  tried  to  stamp  her  love  out,  only  to 
find  that  it  was  worth  more  to  her  than  the  stage, 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        153 

than  her  Paris,  than  her  hf e ;  if  she  cried  to  him^ 
*Willy,  I'm  ashamed!  Forgive  me,  and  let  me 
stop!' — what  do  you  think  the  man  would  say?" 

"Rosa!"  he  gasped. 

"I  love  you!  I  love  you!  I  love  you!"  she  mut- 
tered, straining  him  to  her. 

"You  won't  have  so  long  to  wait  as  you  think 
— I  shan't  last  more  than  three  or  four  years, 
even  here!" 

"You  shall  live  for  ever,"  she  swore;  "you  shall 
be  immortal!" 

They  went,  the  following  day,  to  view  the  lit- 
tle house  that  had  delighted  her  so  much.  It  was 
to  be  let  furnished,  and  the  old,  white-haired 
negress  that  she  had  seen  in  the  garden  was  pre- 
pared to  remain  as  servant.  The^/  settled  to  take 
it  then  and  there ;  and  less  than  a  week  later  they 
were  installed. 

The  afternoon  that  they  moved  in,  Polly  went 
into  town  alone.  She  explained  that  there  was 
something  she  wanted  to  buy — a  shade  for  the 
parlour  lamp ;  and  Willy,  who  was  vividly  inter- 
ested in  the  arrangement  of  their  home  although 
he  could  not  see  it,  said,  "Let  it  be  a  pretty 
colour,  darling,  something  that'll  make  the  room 
nice  to  look  at  in  the  evening!" 

She  left  him  on  the  stoey,  where  she  would  see 
him  at  the  moment  she  reached  the  gate  on  her 


154j    the  man  who  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

return.  But  when  her  purchase  was  made,  she, 
did  not  hasten  to  rejoin  him  there.  She  turned 
up  Adderley  Street,  instead,  into  an  avenue. 
Near  the  foot  there  was  a  big  building.  It  was 
the  PubHc  Library,  and  she  entered  it. 

"Please,"  she  said  nervously  to  a  gentleman 
who  was  standing  behind  the  counter,  "I  want 
a  criticism  of  a  book  of  poems.  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter who  wrote  them,  but  they  must  be  fine  poems, 
and  the  critic  must  say  that  the  poet's  a  genius. 
.  .  .  Could  you  help  me?" 

The  gentleman  was  taken  aback. 

"What  kind  of  poet?"  he  inquired.  "There 
have  been  many  fine  poets.  .  .  .  Do  you  mean  a 
poet  who  is  still  living?" 

"I  really  don't  mind  at  all  whether  he's  living 
or  dead,"  said  Polly,  impartially,  "so  long  as  he's 
good  enough." 

"Well,  we  have  just  received  a  work  that  might 
suit  you.  .  .  .  How  would  this  do?"  He  handed 
her  "Victorian  Poets,"  by  Stedman.  "If  you  go 
into  the  reading-room  you  can  look  through  it." 

She  clutched  the  fat  green  volume  thankfully ; 
and,  taking  a  chair  at  one  of  the  tables  where 
there  were  pens  and  ink,  hurriedly  skimmed  the 
contents. 

The  names  looked  promising.  Tennyson, 
Browning,  Swinburne — a  host  met  her  eye,  in- 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        155 

eluding  dozens  of  whom  she  had  never  heard. 
To  her  impatience,  however,  it  soon  seemed  that 
the  author  found  more  faults  than  merits  in  even 
the  best  of  them;  nowhere  could  she  come  across 
exactly  what  she  sought. 

At  last,  after  iniinite  pains,  she  selected  a  lot 
of  appreciative  paragraphs  and  managed  to 
dovetail  them  into  a  fairly  consistent  whole.  But 
a  panegyric  on  Byron,  which  she  saw  too  late 
for  it  to  be  inserted  satisfactorily,  without  her 
omitting  a  eulogy  of  Keats,  detracted  from  her 
satisfaction. 

"I'm  very  much  obliged/*  she  said  to  the  li- 
brarian. 

"Did  you  find  what  you  wanted?"  he  asked 
curiously. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  she  said;  "at  least,  it'll  do 
to  go  on  with.  But  I  shall  often  have  to  come 
again." 

She  now  proceeded  to  the  station,  and  she 
reached  the  garden  as  the  sun  was  setting.  Willy 
was  still  where  she  had  left  him.  In  her  hand  was 
a  copy  of  a  London  paper — a  paper  that  he  had 
often  referred  to  with  awe  and  anticipation.  She 
put  her  sheet  of  foolscap  on  the  rustic  table,  and 
gave  him  the  paper. 

"Sweetheart,"  she  said,  "I've  brought  you  your 
first  review  I" 


156    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

He  turned  very  pale ;  his  voice  was  tremulous : 
''What  do  they  say?    What's  it  in?" 
She  told  him  the  paper's  name.    "I'll  read  it 
to  you." 

She  took  a  seat  by  the  table,  and  read. 
"  'The  minor  poetry  of  the  last  few  years,'  she 
began,  'is  of  a  strangely  composite  order.  We 
can  see  that  the  long-popular  Browning  at 
length  has  become  a  potent  force  as  the  pioneer 
of  a  half-dramatic,  half  psychological  method, 
whose  adherents  seek  a  change  from  the  idyllic 
repose  of  Tennyson  and  his  followers.  With  this 
intent,  and  with  a  strong  leaning  towards  the  art 
studies  and  convictions  of  the  Rossetti  group,  a 
Neo-Romantic  School  has  arisen,  in  which  Mr. 
William  Childers,  whose  Reveries  is  now  under 
our  consideration,  leaps  at  a  bound  into  the  fore- 
most place.  His  songs  resemble  those  of  Ros- 
setti in  terseness  and  beauty,  while  with  Brown- 
ing they  escape  at  times  to  that  stronghold 
whither  science  and  materialism  are  not  prepared 
to  follow.  Art  so  complex  as  Mr.  Childers'  was 
not  possible  until  centuries  of  literature  had 
passed,  and  an  artist  could  overlook  the  field, 
essay  each  style,  and  evolve  a  metrical  result 
which  should  be  to  that  of  earlier  periods  what 
the  music  of  Meyerbeer  and  Rossini  is  to  the  nar- 
rower range  of  Piccini  or  Gluck.    All  must  ac- 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        157 

knowledge  that  Sic  Itur  ad  Astra  is  perfect  of  its 
kind.  Take  this  and  that  exquisite  ode,  To  a 
Memory,  or  My  Soul  and  I!  We  call  them 
poetry ;  poetry  of  the  lasting  sort,  and  attractive 
to  successive  generations.  We  believe  that  they 
will  be  read  when  many  years  have  passed  away; 
that  they  will  be  picked  out  and  treasured  by 
future  compilers.'  " 

She  paused,  that  he  might  breathe.  Half  an 
acre  of  Heaven  had  fallen  into  the  Rondebosch 
garden  and  its  glory  was  flooding  him. 

After  a  few  seconds  she  bent  again  over  her 
manuscript  and  read  on,  for  several  minutes,  to 
the  end. 

When  she  had  finished  they  did  not  speak.  She 
lay  her  head  on  his  breast,  while  his  soul  uttered 
thanksgiving  on  the  heights  to  which  her  lie  had 
lifted  him.  He  had  touched  the  pinnacle.  He 
was  thrilled  with  an  intenser  joy  than  comes  to 
one  man  among  millions — a  joy  so  vast  that  few 
of  us  have  the  imagination  to  conceive  it. 

;;Happy?" 

"  'Happy'  ?  You,  and  Fame !  Could  life  give 
any  more?" 

The  brief  Cape  tv/ilight  was  beginning  to  fall, 
and  she  guided  him  inside.  She  led  him  into  a 
chair,  and  kissed  him — his  lips,  and  his  sightless 
eyes. 


158    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Your   chair  in  our  home,"   she  murmured. 

*'Oh,  and  the  lamp-shade!    Here  it  is." 
"What  colour  did  you  choose,  Rosa?" 
"It's  couleur  de  roseT  said  Polly.     And  she 

put  it  on. 

Some  months  later,  on  the  border  of  Mowbray 
and  Rondebosch,  there  lingered,  in  the  last 
weeks  of  his  life,  a  famous  poet.  He  had  never 
spoken  with  his  publishers,  but  from  time  to  time 
they  wrote  to  him — in  terms  of  respectful  ad- 
miration; and  then  the  celebrated  actress,  who 
shared  his  exile  and  acted  as  his  amanuensis, 
read  their  letters  to  him,  and  cashed  the  very 
small  drafts  that  they  apologetically  enclosed. 
At  the  primitive  shops  from  which  the  villa  was 
supplied,  its  tenants  were  known  as  "Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Childers."  But  as  they  had  not  been  seen 
at  church,  none  of  the  neighbours  had  called  on 
them,  nor,  in  fact,  did  anyone  suspect  their  great 
importance;  and  as  the  poet,  being  blind,  was 
always  attended  by  the  actress,  he  made  no  ac- 
quaintance when  he  was  out.  He  had  just  pub- 
lished his  second  work,  which  had  enhanced  the 
reputation  won  by  his  first.  The  volumes  were 
beloved  belongings ;  from  the  shelf  on  which  they 
were  kept  he  often  took  them  down  and  fondled 
them.     To  a  stranger,   parting  the   expensive 


THE  LAURELS  AND  THE  LADY        159 

covers,  the  contents  might  have  been  startling  in 
view  of  so  much  pride;  he  might,  indeed,  have 
been  pardoned  the  impression  that  he  was  look- 
ing at  Mavor's  Spelling  Book,  and  a  child's  His- 
tory of  England;  but  the  poet  held  them  with 
rejoicing.  To  clasp  them  was  rapture,  second 
only  to  clasping  his  companion — a  plain  young 
woman  whom  he  addressed  by  another  woman's 
name,  and  passionately  believed  most  beautiful. 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN 

When  he  reached  the  village  of  Thergrimabes 
at  last — and  after  Athens  the  journey  had  been 
extremely  trying — the  curate  gathered  that  Miss 
Netterville  was  out.  As  it  was  six  months  since 
they  had  met,  and  he  had  written  to  her  that  he 
was  coming,  her  fiance  was  vexed. 

The  innkeeper  had  laid  eager  hands  on  the 
portmanteau,  and  the  traveller  signed  to  him 
imperatively  to  put  it  down.  "No,  no,"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  must  sleep  somewhere  else — if 
there's  another  inn  to  be  found  in  the  hole!" 
He  remembered  that  it  was  useless  to  inquire  for 
one  in  English.  "Upon  my  word,"  his  thoughts 
ran,  "it's  most  annoying!  Of  course,  we  can't 
both  lodge  in  the  same  house,  and  none  of  these 
peasants  will  understand  a  word  I  say.  How 
very  tiresome,  to  be  sure!  Really,  it's  most  in- 
considerate of  Gertrude  to  be  out  when  I  arrive. 
I  shall  have  to  be  very  firm  with  her;  I  see  that 
I  shall  have  to  speak  even  more  strongly  than  I 
intended." 

It  was  midday,  and  the  sun  was  blazing;  the 
straggling   white   road   baked  under   his   dusty 

160 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  161 

boots.  The  heat,  and  the  thought  that  Miss  Net- 
terville  would  probably  return  to  luncheon — to 
say  nothing  of  the  difficulty  of  seeking  accommo- 
dation without  an  interpreter — decided  the  curate 
to  remain  for  awhile.  "A  lemon-squash,"  he 
commanded,  at  a  venture,  "bring  me  a  lemon- 
squash!"  And  then,  as  the  order  produced  only 
smiles  and  shrugs,  he  raised  a  hand  to  his  mouth 
w  ith  a  gesture  which  he  felt  to  be  rather  Southern 
and  graceful. 

The  landlord  responded  volubly,  and  though 
he  brought  wine  instead,  the  Rev.  Aloysius 
Chaysle  was  too  thirsty  and  fatigued  to  make  ob- 
jections to  it.  He  sat  in  a  little  vine-clad  arbour, 
with  the  wine  on  a  bench,  and  his  portmanteau 
at  his  side,  and  was  much  inclined  to  wish  that 
he  had  not  left  Bedfordshire.  The  situation 
was  undignified  from  first  to  last,  he  felt.  It  was 
no  less  than  three  years  now  since  Gertrude  had 
promised  to  be  his  wife,  and  their  marriage  had 
been  delayed  by  nothing  but  the  scientific  cold- 
ness of  the  young  woman's  disposition.  When  a 
girl  who  was  betrothed  to  a  Church  of  England 
clergyman,  with  private  means,  allowed  hitn  to 
pine  for  her  in  his  parish  while  she  devoted  her- 
self to  the  study  of  archaeology  abroad,  it  was 
time  for  the  clergyman  to  put  his  foot  down. 


162    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

thought  Aloysius.  And  that  was  what  he  had 
travelled  from  Bedfordshire  to  do. 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Netterville  was  trudging 
along  the  road  to  greet  him,  with  a  frown  on  her 
intellectual  brow.  She  was  quite  aware  that  she 
was  treating  him  unfairly,  and  surmised  pretty 
shrewdly  what  he  had  come  to  say,  and  it  would 
all  be  a  great  bore.  The  idea  of  marriage  had 
never  attracted  her  at  any  time;  Man — other 
than  prehistoric — had  always  been  rather  repel- 
lent to  her  than  the  reverse:  and  she  wondered 
why  she  had  been  weak  enough  to  disturb  her 
life  by  becoming  engaged.  She  approached  the 
arbour  with  no  enthusiasm. 

"Hallo,  Al!"  she  said;  "I  didn't  expect  you  so 
early.    Have  you  been  here  long?" 

"I've  been  here  the  best  part  of  an  hour,"  re- 
plied Aloysius.  "It  was  disappointing  to  find 
you  were  not  at  home.  Well,  how  are  you,  Ger- 
trude?   Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me?" 

She  inclined  a  cheek  awkwardly — such  physical 
expressions  of  good  feeling  were  distasteful  to 
her — and  stared  at  the  portmanteau. 

"What  did  you  bring  your  bag  out  here  for?" 
she  asked.    "Why  didn't  you  take  it  upstairs?" 

"Upstairs?"  echoed  the  curate.  "It  must  be 
taken  to  another  hotel!  But  I  can't  speak  to 
these  people — I  had  to  wait  till  you  came  in." 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  16S 

"I'm  afraid  that  there's  nothing  else  resem- 
bling an  hotel  for  miles,"  she  said;  "Thergrimabes 
is  rather  primitive,  you  know." 

"It  seems  so  primitive  that  I'm  dismayed  to 
find  you  in  it;  but,  with  all  your  contempt  for 
the  conventions,  I  suppose  you  don't  want  us  to 
be  talked  about  ?  Surely  you  understand  that  it's 
out  of  the  question  for  us  both  to  sleep  under 
the  same  roof,  in  the  circumstances?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Aloysius,"  she  cried,  "please! 
Spare  me  the  artificialities!  Go  to  one  of  the 
goatherds'  cottages,  if  any  of  them  has  a  bed  to 
offer  and  you  care  to  lie  in  it,  but  don't  talk  to 
me  as  if  I  were  an  ingenue  in  Bedfordshire — I've 
got  beyond  that  sort  of  thing.  Have  they  given 
you  anything  to  eat?  Lunch'll  be  ready  directly 
— we  may  as  well  go  inside." 

"Gertrude,"  he  began  strenuously,  "I've  some- 
thing to  say  to  you,  and  it's  just  as  well  to  say 
it  at  once.  Your  letters  haven't  been  very  satis- 
factory— over  and  over  again  you've  left  a  ques- 
tion of  mine  unanswered.  We've  been  engaged 
for  three  years  now,  and  I  want  you  to  fix  a  day 
for  our  wedding.  Will  you  marry  me  next 
month?" 

"Xext  month?    Oh,  no,  it's  impossible!" 

"But  why?  Frankly,  dear,  I  am  losing  pa- 
tience.    Why  is  it  always  'impossible'?     Mar- 


164    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

riage  needn't  interfere  with  your  work — you  can 
write  quite  as  easily  when  we're  married  as  you 
do  now." 

"In  Bedfordshire?"  she  said,  with  a  fine  smile. 

"I  don't  approve  of  the  tone  in  which  you  men- 
tion Bedfordshire!"  exclaimed  Aloysius.  "I  pre- 
sume that  a  book  may  be  written  in  Bedford- 
shire as  well  as  in  Thergrimabes,  or  in  Egypt,  or 
any  other  of  the  remote  places  that  you've  a 
craze  for?  The  whole  thing  is  preposterous.  It 
looks  a  little  like  affectation.  It  would  be  pre- 
posterous for  a  girl  of  twenty-eight  to  roam 
about  the  world  unprotected,  in  any  case " 

"Unprotected?"  she  echoed,  "unprotected? 
You  are  talking  a  language  that  I've  forgotten. 
Really,  your  notions  are  the  most  antique  things 
in  Greece!" 

"I  say  that  it  would  be  preposterous  for  a 
young  girl  to  roam  about  the  world  alone,  in  any 
case — you  might  be  robbed  and  murdered  here — 
and  considering  that  you're  engaged  to  me,  it's 
more  preposterous  still.  It  puts  me  in  a  very 
false  position.  And  it's  not  an  easy  matter  to 
explain.    People  have  begun  to  talk." 

"In  Bedfordshire?"  she  inquired  again. 

"Yes,  in  Bedfordshire — and  they  would  talk 
in  Bloomsbury,  or  Belgravia,  or  anywhere  else. 
It's  not  proper,  Gertrude,  it  is  thought  very  im- 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  165 

proper  indeed.  You  must  remember  that  you 
are  young  and  pretty,  and " 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  said  wearily.  "What  an 
odious  word!  I'm  not  accustomed  to  consider 
my  personal  appearance,  but  I  do  trust  that  I'm 
not   pretty.'  " 

"My  sister  often  says  that  you  would  be  ex- 
tremely pretty,"  returned  Aloysius,  "if  you  didn't 
strain  your  hair  back,  and  paid  more  attention  to 
your  clothes.  But  your  prettiness  is  not  the 
point;  the  main  thing  is  our  engagement — you 
haven't  the  right  to  behave  like  this,  you  aren't 
free  to  indulge  your  eccentricities,  you  owe  a 
duty  to  ]Me." 

INIiss  Netterville  lit  a  cigarette,  and  gazed 
thoughtfully  across  a  mulberry-tree.  Character- 
istically, she  had  made  no  change  in  her  costume 
on  the  day  of  her  lover's  arrival — and  she  had 
stated  a  fact  when  she  declared  herself  indif- 
ferent to  her  appearance  as  a  rule;  but  in  spite 
of  the  ill-fitting  blouse,  the  unbecomingly  dressed 
blonde  hair,  in  spite  even  of  the  coldly  intellectual 
eyes,  she  looked  a  desirable  woman.  A  psychol- 
ogist might  have  thought  she  looked  also  a  woman 
with  potentialities.  But  Aloysius  was  not  a 
psychologist;  he  saw  only  the  obvious — and  not 
the  w^hole  of  that. 

"Of  course  I  am  to  blame,"  she  said  at  last. 


166    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"I  know.  But  then  I  never  pretended  to  the 
kind  of  temperament  that  you  admire.  To  me, 
my  paramount  duty  must  always  be  my  work; 
to  you,  my  paramount  duty  is  to  do  the  sort  of 
thing  that  any  other  woman  could  do  equally 
well.  It  is  curious  that  I  appeal  to  you.  To  be 
quite  candid,  love  in  its  physical  aspects  is  un- 
pleasant to  me,  quite  apart  from  the  fact  that 
marriage  would  be  an  abominable  hindrance  to 
my  studies.  I  have  no  gift  for  domesticity;  the 
prospect  of  district-visiting  appals  me,  and  tea- 
parties  bore  me  to  death.  And  I  have  no  leaning 
towards  maternity.  I  oughtn't  to  have  promised 
to  marry  at  all — I  have  more  important  things  to 
do  in  my  life.  There  are  shoals  of  women  capable 
of  adding  to  the  world's  population,  but  the 
women  capable  of  adding  to  its  store  of  knowl- 
edge are  comparatively  few." 

"You  are  expressing  yourself  very  strangely,'* 
muttered  the  curate,  "very  strangely,  indeed!  If 
I  understand  you,  you  are  breaking  our  engage- 
ment off." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  unkind,"  she  said,  "but  I 
am  quite  sure  that  you  ought  to  do  better." 

"That  is  a  matter  on  which  you  must  allow  me 
to  judge  for  myself — on  which  I  did  judge  for 
myself  when  I  proposed  to  you.  I  could  cer- 
tainly wish  that  you  held  more  feminine  views — 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  167 

and  that  you  did  not  express  the  views  that  you 
do  hold  with  such  unusual  bluntness — but,  for 
good  or  ill,  I  love  you.  You  must  admit  that  to 
break  off  our  engagement  after  all  this  time 
would  be  to  treat  me  cruelly?  I  really  don't 
know  what  I  could  say  to  people!" 

"You  could  say  that  you  had  given  me  up — 
everybody  would  consider  you  were  quite  justi- 
fied." 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  telling  falsehoods, 
Gertrude ;  I  should  have  to  acknowledge  that  you 
had  thrown  me  over — at  the  end  of  three  years, 
after  I  had  travelled  to  Greece  to  see  you ;  I  had 
looked  forward  to  a  tenderer  conclusion  to  the 
journey,  I  must  say!"  He,  too,  regarded  the 
mulberry-tree.  "I — I  am  not  unreasonable,  I 
quite  appreciate  your  interest  in  your  work — 
archaeology  is  a  very  interesting  subject,  I  am 
sure,  and " 

Miss  Netterville  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 
"Please  don't  patronise  the  Ages!  You  mean 
well,  but  it's  irritating." 

"I  was  about  to  explain  that  if  next  month 
would  be  inconvenient  to  you  on  literary  grounds, 
I  would  cheerfully  wait  until  the  month  after," 
said  Aloysius,  with  pained  surprise.  "Let  us 
both  make  concessions — let  us  say  in  two  months' 
time!     Eh,   dearest?     We   have   both   let   our 


168    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

tongues  run  away  with  us,  haven't  we — both  been 
a  httle  hasty?  What  do  you  say?  You  shall 
share  my  study — you  shall  have  your  own  shelves 
in  it.  Only  the  other  day  I  was  looking  at  a 
little  bamboo  desk  in  the  High  Street,  and  think- 
ing how  admirably  it  would  suit  you.  Td  write 
my  sermons  while  you  wrote  your  book,  and 
sometimes  we  might  turn  round  and  read  each 
other  what  we  had  done.  Wouldn't  it  be  cosy, 
now?   Doesn't  it  sound  pleasant?" 

She  shuddered,  and  nerved  herself  for  a  su- 
preme effort. 

"Al!"  she  stammered,  "it  has  been  a  shocking 
mistake;  I  can't  marry  you." 

And  the  curate  did  not  sleep  anywhere  at  all 
in  Thergrimabes — he  left  it  the  same  evening. 
When  he  bade  her  "Good-bye,"  he  said,  "I  have 
released  you  from  your  promise,  Gertrude,  be- 
cause you  forced  me  to  do  so;  but  I  shan't  cease 
to  long  for  you,  and  if  you  ever  change  your 
mind,  you  must  let  m^e  know.  Think  things  over 
after  I  have  gone — I  shall  always  be  hoping  to 
hear  from  you."  Then  he  climbed  into  the  crazy 
vehicle,  and  was  jolted  over  the  white  road  again 
— a  disconsolate  figure  beside  the  portmanteau 
that  had  not  been  unpacked — and  Miss  Netter- 
ville  went  moodily  to  her  work. 

Thergrimabes  consists  of  its  dilapidated  inn 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  169 

and  a  sprinkling  of  hovels.  Half -naked  children 
swarm  in  the  dust,  and  beg  of  any  misguided 
tourist  who  happens  to  stray  there  from  the 
towns  beyond ;  goatherds,  dignified  in  their  rags, 
roll  cigarettes  pensively,  and  prematurely  old 
women  occasionally  appear  at  the  doors  and 
shade  their  eyes  in  the  sun.  These  are  almost 
the  only  signs  of  activity  in  Thergrimabes.  For 
the  rest,  you  have  silence  and  the  mountains. 

Miss  Netterville  made  majiy  expeditions  up 
the  mountains;  equipped  with  a  scribbling  block 
and  a  fountain  pen,  she  often  wrote  among  them. 
One  evening — she  had  now  written  thirty  thou- 
sand words,  and  Aloysius  had  been  gone  about  a 
month — she  heard  the  slow  sound  of  hoofs.  Two 
quaintly  garbed  men  were  riding  down  the  track. 
They  had  evidently  just  observed  her,  and  as  she 
turned,  one  of  them  waved  his  sombrero  to  her, 
with  an  impudent  smile.  He  was  the  taller  of  the 
pair,  a  swarthy,  handsome  fellow,  with  laughing 
eyes,  and  a  big  moustache  that  curled  above  full, 
sensual  lips.  She  bent  over  her  manuscript  again 
with  a  frown,  wondering  why  his  glance  had  af- 
fected her  so  queerly. 

The  men  quickened  their  pace,  and  then  dis- 
mounted and  advanced  to  her.  Her  emotion  was 
pure  fear  now;  she  got  up,  trembling. 

"There  is  nothing  to  do — she  is  alone!"  said 


170    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

the  smaller  of  the  two,  a  weedy  villain,  with  a 
squint. 

"You  will  find  you  have  more  to  do  than  you 
think,"  she  boasted,  coolly;  "I  am  armed." 

"So  you  understand  Greek,  do  you?"  ex- 
claimed his  companion.  "That's  all  the  better — 
I  like  a  girl  to  be  able  to  talk  to  me!  You  are 
going  to  have  a  ride  with  me,  my  beauty.  If 
you  don't  come  quietly,  I  shall  have  to  be  rough ! 
How  is  it  to  be?" 

He  learnt  how  it  was  to  be  at  once;  Miss 
Netterville  struck  at  the  handsome  face  straight 
from  the  shoulder — throwing  her  body  into  the 
blow  with  capital  effect — and  took  to  flight  as  he 
reeled  back.  But  the  next  instant  he  rushed 
after  her;  he  seized  her  before  she  had  covered  a 
dozen  yards.  Now  there  was  no  chance  to  strike 
him — an  arm  flung  round  her  held  her  fast,  and 
she  could  only  scream  for  help.  He  swung  her 
off  her  feet,  and  stumbled  with  her  towards  the 
saddle.  His  labouring  breath  was  in  her  face, 
but  his  eyes  laughed  into  her  own,  though  the 
blood  that  she  had  drawn  was  trickling  round  his 
mouth.  As  he  rode  off  with  her,  crushed  against 
him,  she  could  feel  the  heaving  of  his  breast 
under  her  cheek.  They  rode  some  distance  with 
her  cheek  strained  against  his  breast  before  he 
spoke. 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  171 

''Anathema  ton!  What  a  spitfire  you  are!" 
he  panted.  "Look  what  your  fist  has  done !  Don't 
you  think  you  owe  me  a  kiss  for  that?" 

"You  brute,"  she  gasped,  "I'd  like  to  kill  you!" 

"You're  a  regular  devil  of  a  woman — I  didn't 
know  they  made  them  like  you  with  that  coloured 
hair." 

"You're  hurting  my  arm,"  she  moaned.  "I 
can't  bear  it  any  longer." 

"Will  you  sit  still  if  I  don't  hold  so  tight?" 

"I  couldn't  escape  even  if  I  jumped  off." 

"That's  true,"  said  the  brigand,  "but  I  don't 
want  the  job  of  getting  you  up  again;  if  I  had 
your  weight  in  gold,  my  dear,  I'd  lead  an  easy 
hfe!"  He  slackened  his  grasp  a  little,  and  flashed 
his  bold,  impudent  smile  at  her — the  smile  that 
had  shamed  her  so  hotly  when  she  first  saw  him. 
"Come,  it's  not  disagreeable  to  be  hugged  by  a 
man?  Own  up!  It  would  be  very  shocking  if 
you  could  help  it,  but  you  can't ;  remind  yourself 
that  you're  not  to  blame,  and  then  you  can  have 
a  good  time!" 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?" 

"To  my  hotel,"  said  the  facetious  outlaw. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Call  it  a  'cave'  if  you  like — I'm  not  proud, 
and  I  have  a  fancy  for  a  quiet  spot.  But  there's 
room  enough  for  you  in  it — and  food  and  wine. 


172    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

We'll  have  a  bottle  together.  Don't  look  so 
frightened.  I'll  release  you  safe  and  sound  when 
the  ransom  is  paid,  I  take  my  oath." 

Miss  Netterville  stared  into  the  twilight.  She 
might  tell  him  that  there  was  no  one  to  ransom 
her;  but  if  he  believed  the  statement,  he  would 
probably  be  reckless  how  he  treated  her,  she 
thought ;  her  only  safeguard  was  to  leave  him  the 
illusion  that  her  safety  would  be  paid  for  heavily. 

"How  much  do  you  demand?" 

"I  shall  open  my  mouth  jolly  wide.  You  are 
a  pretty  woman — you  would  be  very  vexed  if  I 
put  a  low  price  on  you!"  He  broke  into  a  roar 
of  laughter,  and  clasped  her  more  caressingly. 

His  good  humour  was  not  without  a  reassuring 
effect.  The  scoundrel  was  very  human,  and  her 
horror  of  him  had  partially  subsided.  Indeed, 
as  they  rode  on  in  this  close  embrace,  she  mar- 
velled that  she  could  bear  the  ignominy  of  it 
with  such  fortitude. 

It  was  a  long  ride;  her  thoughts  wandered  in 
it,  and  curious  fancies  crossed  her  mind.  She 
thought  of  Aloysius,  and  wished  that  he  were 
different.  It  occurred  to  her  that  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  be  clasped  to  Aloysius  like  this — al- 
ways with  the  proviso  "if  he  were  different" — 
and  then  she  reflected  that  the  ride  itself  would 
be  pleasant  if  the  brigand  were  a  gentleman,  and 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  173 

their  embrace  were  right.  Insensibly  she  yielded 
to  it  more  and  more.      It  grew  less  repugnant 

to  her,  and  even With  a  shock  she  realised 

what  she  had  been  feeling,  and  shivered  with  self- 
disgust. 

"We  have  arrived,"  said  the  brigand;  he  car- 
ried her  inside.  "It  is  nice  to  carry  you,  now 
that  you  don't  struggle,"  he  added. 

On  entering,  she  was  plunged  into  darkness  so 
intense  that  she  could  discern  nothing  whatever. 
Then  she  found  herself  borne  into  a  cave  illu- 
mined by  pendant  oil  lamps,  and  furnished  with 
considerable  comfort.  Beyond  was  a  second  cleft 
of  light,  and  she  perceived  that  the  cave  resem- 
bled a  suite  of  rooms  communicating  with  one 
another  by  means  of  apertures  in  the  rock.  The 
man  who  had  assisted  in  her  capture  rejoined  her 
now,  and  three  others  appeared,  who  saluted  her 
with  quiet  satisfaction.  There  was  no  excite- 
ment, no  hint  of  violence;  to  her  surprise,  her 
reception  was  as  formal  as  if  she  had  arrived  at 
an  inn — as  formally  as  innkeepers  the  brigands 
prepared  to  keep  her  prisoner. 

Excepting  the  captain!  The  captain,  as  has 
been  seen,  did  his  business  with  bonhomie.  If 
not  "the  mildest  mannered  man  that  ever  cut  a 
throat,"  at  least  he  was  the  most  jovial.  No 
gallant  ever  filled  a  lady's  glass,  or  peeled  her  figs 


174    THE  MAX  WHO  UXDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

with  more  consideration,  and  when  he  told  the 
company  how  vaHantly  she  had  defended  herself, 
he  testified  to  her  prowess  with  so  much  humour 
that  she  couldn't  restrain  a  smile. 

At  the  same  time,  it  was  with  no  httle  trepida- 
tion that  she  found  herself  alone  with  him  again 
when  the  meal  was  finished.  It  proved  necessary, 
to  confess  that  she  had  no  friends  in  Greece  with 
whom  he  could  communicate,  and,  moreover, 
that  none  of  her  friends  in  England  was  in  a 
position  to  ransom  her ;  he  twirled  his  moustache 
thoughtfully  when  she  explained. 

"Xo  lover?"  he  questioned.  "Rubbish,  you 
mustn't  tell  me  that  you  have  no  lover — a  woman 
like  you!" 

*'It  is  true,"  she  declared. 

"Xor  a  husband?" 

"Xo ;  I  was  to  have  married,  but  I  changed  my 
mind." 

'^Dlahole!  he  had  no  blood  in  his  veins,  or  he 
would  have  carried  you  off,  like  me.  Well,  it 
seems  that  I  have  made  a  bungle,  eh?  Women 
are  all  hars,  but  every  man  is  a  fool  once,  and  I 
beheve  you.  So  I  have  had  a  punch  in  the  face 
for  nothing?    That's  a  nice  thing!" 

"I  have  a  watch  on,"  she  suggested;  "you  can 
take  that  if  you  hke."    It  was  a  httle  Swiss  watch 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  175 

that  had  cost  thirty  shillings.  He  looked  at  it, 
and  gave  a  shrug. 

"Is  that  what  you  offer  me  to  let  you  go?  I 
think  you  are  worth  more." 

"I  have  nothing  else  to  offer.  Besides,  al- 
though I  haven't  any  friends  to  pay  a  ransom, 
there  are  plenty  of  people  to  miss  me ;  the  search 
might  not  do  me  much  good,  but  it  would  prob- 
ably end  in  your  being  shot.  As  you  can't  hope 
to  make  any  money  by  me,  you'd  be  wise  to  set 
me  free." 

"You  have  brains,  too,  under  that  lovely  hair," 
he  remarked,  appreciatively.  "May  I  offer  you 
a  cigarette?" 

"Xo,"  she  said;  but  she  eyed  the  packet  wist- 
fully, and  wished  that  her  case  were  in  her  pocket. 

"Now  you  are  being  a  little  donkey!  Why 
should  I  wait  to  drug  you  with  a  cigarette  when 
I  could  tap  you  on  the  head  with  one  of  these?" 
He  touched  the  pistols  in  the  sash  wound  round 
his  sturdy  waist.  "You  see  I  am  smoking  them 
myself — take  your  choice  among  the  lot!" 

ISIiss  Netterville  and  the  brigand  smoked  in 
silence  for  a  few  moments.    Then ■ 

"Everj^  man  is  a  fool  once,"  he  repeated  medi- 
tatively, "but  there  must  be  a  limit  to  his  foUv. 
If  I  set  you  free  hke  this,  what  sort  of  ass  would 


176    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

you  think  me?  No  better  than  the  wooer  who  let 
you  change  your  mind!" 

"I  should  think  you  had  acted  like  a  brave  and 
generous  fellow!" 

"Ah,  you  want  to  flatter  me  into  it,  you  cun- 
ning cat!"  he  said.  "Do  you  know  that  I  could 
love  you  desperately,  my  beauty  with  the  yellow 
hair?  I  believe  I  fell  in  love  with  you  when  I 
felt  your  fist!  I  like  you  for  having  hit  me — I 
should  like  you  to  hit  me  again.  Come  and  hit  me 
again,  beauty  with  the  yellow  hair — or  sing  me  a 
love  song.    Do  you  sing?" 

"No,"  she  murmured. 

"It's  a  pity,  for  you  are  a  passionate  woman — 
you  would  have  sung  well.  Why  did  you  start  ?" 

She  had  started  to  discover  that  this  bandit 
knew  her  better  than  she  had  known  herself  un- 
til an  hour  ago.    "I  didn't  start,"  she  answered. 

"Fire  has  no  heat,  and  there  is  no  water  in  the 
rivers;  all  things  are  as  the  right  woman  says," 
he  rejoined.  "So  you  did  not  start,  beauty, 
though  you  have  shaken  the  ash  of  your  cigarette 
on  to  your  knees!  Well,  /  will  sing  to  you  in- 
stead. I  will  sing  at  your  feet,  while  my  poor 
comrades  have  only  their  cards  to  play  with.  It 
is  good  to  be  the  captain  sometimes — it  is  good 
to-night." 

He  twanged  the  strings,  and  broke  into  a  sere- 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN         ITT 

nade.  The  deep  voice  was  untrained,  but  rich 
and  sweet.  After  the  first  surprise,  Miss  Netter- 
ville  forgot  who  it  was  that  sang — it  was  an  art- 
ist on  the  stage,  a  lover  below  a  window;  almost 
it  was  her  own  lover,  whom  she  loved !  The  mu- 
sic knocked  at  her  heart,  and  no  trace  of  the  smile 
that  discomfited  her  so  much  was  on  the  hand- 
some face  now — sentiment  idealised  the  ruffian. 

When  he  finished  she  w^as  very  pale. 

"Are  you  as  cold  as  the  woman  of  the  song?" 
he  whispered. 

"Yes,"  she  muttered,  "I  am  as  cold." 

"You  lie,"  he  cried,  "you  love  me!"  And  the 
next  instant  she  snatched  a  pistol  from  his  sash. 

"I'll  kill  myself!"  she  gasped. 

She  thought  her  wrist  was  broken  as  she 
dropped  the  weapon.  He  picked  it  up  and  paced 
the  cave  with  agitation,  smiting  his  chest,  and 
ejaculating.  INIeanwhile,  the  English  lady  mar- 
velled why  she  didn't  loathe  him. 

"Will  you  go?"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly. 
"You  shall  go  now,  if  you  wish  it;  I  swear  you 
shall  be  guided  back.  I  love  you,  I  adore  you, 
I  implore  you  to  stay!    Do  you  wish  to  go?" 

She  bowed  her  head — "I  wish  to  go." 

He  called  to  the  men,  and  she  heard  their  won- 
derment, their  departing  footsteps — at  last  the 
clip-clop  sound  of  hoofs  outside.    All  this  time 


178    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

the  captain  had  stood  brooding  silently;  now  he 
raised  his  head,  and  she  saw  with  emotion  that 
tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

"Good-bye,  zoe  mou/''  he  said. 

"Oh!"  she  faltered.  "Did  you  really  love  me 
then?" 

He  opened  his  arms,  and  Miss  Netterville  gave 
herself  to  them  with  impetuous  lips. 

"All  is  ready  for  the  lady!"  came  the  shout. 

"They  are  waiting  for  you,"  said  the  brigand 
sadly. 

"There — ^there^s  no  hurry  for  a  minute,"  Miss 
Netterville  heard  herself  reply. 

Before  she  left  hirri  he  assured  her  that  her 
escort  might  be  trusted;  and  no  mishap  befell  her 
on  the  road.  But  she  had  lost  her  nerve ;  a  few 
days  later  she  returned  to  England,  and — per- 
haps she  no  longer  considered  protection  so  su- 
perfluous— she  married  Aloysius  the  following 
month,  though  he  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to 
inform  him  of  her  adventure. 

They  have  been  married  for  some  years  now, 
and  get  on  together  as  well  as  most  people. 
Aloysius  has  obtained  an  excellent  hving,  and  the 
eldest  of  their  children  is  a  little  son,  who  en- 
grosses his  mother's  attention  to  the  exclusion  of 
archaeology.    If  it  were  not  for  her  son's  favour- 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN  179 

ite  game,  the  vicar's  wife  might  think  less  often 
of  her  strange  experience;  but  the  boy  tilts  his 
straw  hat  like  a  sombrero,  and  sticks  a  pop-gun 
in  his  sash,  and  pretends  that  the  summer-house 
is  the  "brigands'  cave."  At  such  times,  Aloysius 
remarks  humorously  that  "a  little  brigand  is  in- 
appropriate to  a  vicarage  garden."  And  the 
lady's  eyes  are  wide. 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS 

"You  said  to  me  last  night,  Duchess,  'You  are 
a  great  musician,  Socoloski,  but  a  great  musician 
may  be  a  great  fool!'  I  had  vexed  you.  If  I 
should  not  know  that,  forgive  me;  perhaps  it  is 
common  of  me  to  recognise  that  I  vexed  you — I 
shall  always  be  ignorant  of  the  best  manners. 
Pray  be  indulgent  to  my  ignorance,  pray  let  me 
write  to  you  boldly,  because  I  have  something  to 
say. 

"But  how  difficult  it  is — I  am  a  vulgarian,  who 
can  express  himself  only  by  his  violin !  I  want  to 
say  that  when  you  looked  at  me  so  kindly,  I  was 
not  the  dolt  and  ingrate  that  I  seemed;  I  was 
very  proud,  very  honoured.  If  I  appeared  in- 
sensible of  your  interest,  it  was  because  I  had  just 
been  stricken  by  a  grief  which  I  dared  not  hint. 

"I  arrived  at  your  house  late  last  night.  You 
will  be  revolted  to  learn  what  delayed  me.  When 
my  recital  was  over,  and  I  had  escaped  from  the 
fashionable  ladies  who  scrambled  to  kiss  my 
hands  and  pull  buttons  from  my  coat  as  keep- 
sakes, I  hurried  to  a  minor  music-hall  to  hear  a 
girl  in  tinsel  sing  a  trashy  song.    I  hurried  there 

180 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS  181 

because  I  loved  her,  Duchess,  and  I  had  much  to 
think  of  when  I  left.  To  understand  what  was 
in  my  heart  when  I  reached  your  drawing-room, 
you  must  read  my  love-story  from  the  beginning 
— my  very  vulgar  love-storj^  that  will  disgust 
you. 

"Most  of  the  things  that  you  have  seen  about 
me  in  the  papers  were  false — anecdotes  invented 
by  my  agent.  The  public  ask  for  anecdotes  of 
their  favourite  artists,  and  it  is  business  to  give 
the  public  what  they  want.  I  generally  play 
the  music  that  they  want,  though  it  is  seldom  the 
music  that  I  like  best.  I  say  that  most  of  the 
things  you  have  heard  about  me  were  false,  but 
this  much  is  true — my  father  was  a  peasant,  and 
I  have  fiddled  in  a  fair. 

"I  was  happy.  I  have  been  told  of  artists  who 
suffered  agonies  in  their  youth,  always  tortured 
by  ambition  and  dismayed  by  their  obscurity. 
With  me  it  was  quite  different.  I  was  more  joy- 
ous in  a  tent  than  I  am  now  on  the  platforms.  I 
even  knew  at  the  time  that  I  was  happy.  That 
says  much !  Ungrateful,  perhaps  I  sound  to  you? 
Still,  I  shall  be  frank. 

"I  was  thirteen  when  I  first  heard  the  words, 
'You  will  be  famous.'  I  was  on  my  way  to  buy 
some  apples,  and  the  discussion  that  detained  me 
bored  me  a  great  deal.    So  ignorant  was  I,  that  I 


182    THE  MAX  WHO  UXDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

swear  to  you  'Fame'  said  no  more  to  me  than 
that  one  day  I  should  fiddle  with  a  roof  of  wood 
over  my  head,  and  that  storekeepers  and  farmers 
would  spell  my  name  from  a  bill  at  the  doors. 

"My  patron  had  me  educated.  To  him  I  owe, 
not  only  my  position  in  the  musical  world,  but  the 
fact  that  I  am  able  to  write  this  letter.  I  shall 
not  weary  you  by  describing  the  years  of  study. 
When  I  began  to  understand  what  lay  before  me, 
my  apprenticeship  looked  an  endless  martyrdom ; 
more  than  once  I  was  at  the  point  of  fleeing  from 
it.  There  is,  they  say,  a  special  department  of 
Providence  for  the  protection  of  fools;  it  is 
Providence,  no  wisdom  of  my  own,  I  have  to 
thank  that  I  am  not  still  a  vagrant  scraping  to 
villagers  among  the  show  wagons.  The  plans 
mapped  out  for  me  succeeded  in  spite  of  myself; 
at  last  the  time  arrived  when  it  was  said,  'Xow 
we  will  commence !' 

"Of  course,  I  had  come  to  my  senses  before 
this.  So  far  from  hankering  after  the  tents  of  my 
boyhood,  I  was  ashamed  to  remember  that  I  had 
ever  played  in  them ;  so  far  from  picturing  Fame 
as  the  applause  of  shopkeepers  in  a  shed,  I 
thirsted  for  something  more  than  the  reception 
accorded  me  at  mv  debut.  Ambition  devoured 
me  now.    If  I  have  the  right  to  praise  mj'self  for 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS  183 

anvthincr.  it  is  for  the  devotion  with  which  I 
worked  during  the  five  vears  that  followed. 

'"Well,  I  made  a  furore.  Audiences  rained 
roses  on  me  and  struggled  to  reach  the  platform. 
Great  ladies  invited  me  to  their  receptions,  and 
bent  their  eves  on  me  as  if  I  were  a  ffod.  I 
found  it  frightfully  confusing;  under  my  veneer, 
under  my  fashionable  suit,  I  was  still  the  peasant 
who  had  held  his  cap  for  coppers.  I  discovered 
that  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  do  more  than 
master  my  art — that  I  was  required  to  say  inter- 
esting things  to  people  who  frightened  me;  my 
popularity  suffered  a  little  because  I  could  not  do 
it.  The  agent  was  furious  at  my  bashfulness. 
'You  must  speak  to  the  ladies  as  if  you  were  in 
love  with  them,'  he  told  me;  'or  if  you  cannot 
do  that,  be  rude  I  Make  an  eff'ect  somehoic.  You 
answer  as  if  you  were  a  servant.' 

*"^Ianv  of  my  eccentric  remarks  that  you  have 
heard.  Duchess,  have  been  composed  with  diffi- 
culty, and  practised  with  care.  The  world  will 
not  have  us  as  we  are.  ^Iv  assent  often  returns  a 
portrait-poster  of  me  to  the  printer,  with  the  in- 
structions, 'Put  more  soul  into  the  eyes'! 

"I  am  cominoj  to  mv  love-story.  It  was  no 
further  back  than  last  year  that  I  first  met  her.  I 

ft 

had  given  a  recital  at  Blithepoint,  and  was  re- 


184    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

maining  there  for  a  few  days'  rest.  One  evening 
I  went  to  a  variety  entertainment  in  the  pavilion 
on  the  pier. 

"In  the  bill  were  three  girls  described  as  'The 
Three  Sisters  Clicquot.'  They  appeared  as  thea- 
tre attendants — the  programme  sellers  who  show 
you  to  your  box — and  sang,  to  a  rather  plaintive 
air,  that  they  once  hoped  to  be  stars  themselves. 
And  then,  having  blossomed  into  gauze  and  span- 
gles, they  burlesqued  melodrama.  After  their 
turn,  two  of  the  trio  came  into  the  stalls,  and,  by 
chance,  I  spoke  to  one  of  them;  a  Strong  Man 
had  broken  a  sixpence  in  halves,  and  thrown  the 
pieces  over  the  footlights — the  girl  asked  me  to 
let  her  see  the  piece  that  I  picked  up. 

"I  do  not  suppose  I  exchanged  twenty  words 
with  her,  and  certainly  I  gave  no  thought  to  the 
incident ;  but  a  night  or  two  later  I  drifted  on  to 
the  pier  again,  and  came  face  to  face  with  her 
after  the  performance  was  over. 

"She  greeted  me  gaily.  'Hallo!  Have  you 
been  in  front  ?' 

"'No,'  I  said;  'I  am  only  strolling.  Where 
are  your  sisters — are  they  really  your  sisters?' 

"  'Oh,  no,'  she  answered.  'It's  Nina  Clicquot's 
show — good  name  to  choose,  eh?  The  other  girl, 
Eva  Jones,  and  I  are  engaged  by  her,  that's  all. 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS  185 

This  is  my  card.'   From  a  battered  purse  she  took 
a  card  on  which  was  printed: 


3Iiss  Betty  Williams 

The  Three  Sisters  Clicquot 


"We  were  near  the  entrance  to  the  buffet. 
'Will  you  come  and  have  a  drink?'  I  asked. 

"  'Oh,  I  don't  think  I  will,  thanks,'  she  said. 
'I'm  waiting  for  Eva — I  might  miss  her.' 

"  'Oh,  you'd  better  come,'  I  said. 

"We  went  in  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  tables. 
She  did  not  strike  me  as  particularly  good-look- 
ing then;  the  spell  of  her  face  lay  in  its  change- 
fulness,  and  as  yet  I  had  not  seen  it  change,  for 
her  capabilities  as  an  actress  were  of  the  slight- 
est. I  saw  merely  a  pale,  slim  girl,  becomingly 
dressed  in  some  dark  stuff  that  was  rather 
shabby;  when  she  lifted  her  brandy-and-soda,  a 
finger-tip  showed  through  a  glove.  I  wondered 
why  I  had  brought  her  in,  and  was  glad  that 
there  was  no  crowd  to  recognize  me.  It  wasn't 
till  she  told  me  so  that  I  was  sure  she  recognised 
me  herself. 

"She  said,  'I  have  never  heard  you  play;  I 


186    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

should  love  to!  Did  you  get  many  people  in 
down  here?' 

"I  couldn't  help  smiling.  Yet  it  had  a  pleas- 
ant ring,  that  question.  It  revived  the  past — 
the  days  when  I  used  to  see  the  takings  divided 
on  the  drum. 

"  'Oh,'  she  exclaimed,  laughing,  'I  forgot  1  Of 
course  you  did — I'm  not  used  to  talking  to  big 
guns.'  But  there  was  no  embarrassment  in  her 
apology — she  might  have  been  living  among  'big 
guns'  all  her  life. 

"  'How  long  have  you  been  at  it?'  I  asked  her. 

"  'The  halls?  Three  years,'  she  said.  'I  was 
on  the  stage  for  a  little  while,  not  that  I  was  up 
to  much.  I  was  the  starving  heroine  once — the 
manager  said  I  was  the  worst  leading  lady  he 
had  ever  seen,  but  that  I  "looked  the  part,"  be- 
cause I  was  all  bones.  I  a7n  a  skeleton,  aren't  I? 
I  chucked  the  stage ;  the  halls  pay  much  better — 
and  my  voice  isn't  bad.  Of  course,  it's  not  a 
trained  voice,  but  it  isn't  bad,  eh?  We  have  two 
shows  a  night  next  week — that  means  five  pounds 
to  me.  Good  for  little  Betty!'  By  the  way,  she 
was  not  little. 

"  'What  do  you  do  with  so  much  money?'  One 
must  say  something. 

"  'Oh,  I've  plenty  to  do  with  it,'  she  said. 

"  'A  husband  to  keep?' 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS  187 

"'Give  us  a  chance!'  she  laughed.  *No,  but 
mother  doesn't  make  much  by  the  shop  any  more 
— she's  a  costumier — and  there  are  the  kids  to 
bring  up — I've  two  young  brothers.  She  did  well 
once;  I  used  to  go  up  West,  to  try  for  engage- 
ments, dressed  to  kill — she  lent  me  the  models  to 
put  on.  I  often  didn't  have  twopence  in  my 
pocket,  but  I  looked  a  treat.  The  only  thing  was, 
I  was  so  afraid  of  its  raining — then  we  couldn't 
sell  the  model.' 

"  'You've  had  hard  times?'  I  said,  interested. 

"She  nodded  gravely.  'Rough!  I've  always 
found  very  good  pals,  though.  When  I  went  into 
the  chorus  at  the  Regalia,  I  and  a  friend  of 
mine  hadn't  a  cent  between  us  for  bus  fares ;  and 
there  was  an  old  Johnnie — one  of  the  syndicate 
— who  took  to  us.  Quite  straight!  He  said, 
"Look  here,  I  know  you  two  girls  aren't  getting 
enough  to  eat;  I've  booked  a  table  at  the  Troc, 
and  you're  both  to  lunch  there  right  through  the 
rehearsals.  If  you  can't  get  away  for  lunch,  it's 
to  be  dinner;  but  one  square  meal  a  day  the  two 
of  you  must  have  regularly,  or  there'll  be  rows. 
Mind,  it  isn't  to  be  a  meal  for  more  than  two!"  ' 
Her  face  lit  with  laughter.  'There  were  some 
boys  in  the  chorus  just  as  stony  as  we  were;  my 
friend  would  lunch  one  day,  and  I'd  lunch  the 
next — we'd  each  take  a  boy  in  turn!     But  the 


188    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

old  man  found  out  what  was  going  on — and  the 
Troc  was  off !  .  .  .  I've  had  cases  of  champagne 
sent  me,  if  you  please!  He  was  a  wine  mer- 
chant's son — wanted  to  marry  me;  his  screw  in 
the  business  was  about  a  pound  a  week.  Nice  lit- 
tle fellow.  He  always  called  me  "Jack."  He 
used  to  say,  "I  can't  come  in  the  pit  to  see  the 
show  to-night — I  haven't  got  a  bob;  but  have  a 
case  of  champagne.  Jack !  I'll  send  you  one  round 
— it  doesn't  cost  me  anything."  ' 

"I  liked  it.  For  years  I  had  conversed  with 
only  two  kinds  of  women — the  women  who  awed 
me,  and  the  women  who  were  awed.  In  five  min- 
utes I  was  as  spontaneous  as  she.  Her  tones 
were,  for  the  most  part,  very  pleasant,  and  now 
that  she  was  animated,  the  play  of  her  features 
fascinated  me.  When  we  had  finished  our  di'inks 
we  sauntered  round  and  round  the  pavilion. 

"  'The  performing  birds  are  on,'  she  said,  as  we 
caught  the  music;  'I  hate  that  show,  I  hate  an 
audience  for  standing  it.  Don't  they  know  it's 
cruel?  Performing  birds  make  me  think  of  the 
first  bird  you  see  die — you're  a  child,  it's  gener- 
ally the  first  time  you've  looked  at  death.  You 
bury  your  bird  in  the  garden,  and  you  line  the 
grave  with  flowers,  so  that  the  horrid  earth  shan't 
touch  it.'    Her  voice  fell  to  a  whisper. 

"By  the  burst  of  applause  that  reached  us  in 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS  189 

the  moonlight  I  knew  that  the  pavilion  was 
packed. 

"  'That's  Heracles,  the  Strong  Man,'  she  said, 
as  we  listened  again.  'What  did  you  think  of 
him?  He's  in  love  with  my  "sister" — I  mean 
Eva  Jones.  He  wanted  to  kiss  her,  and  she  put 
on  side — oh,  Eva  was  very  haughty!  "Sir,  how 
dare  you?"  He  had  hold  of  her  finger,  and  he 
drew  her  to  him  as  if  she  had  been  a  piece  of 
paper — it  was  so  funny,  to  see  her  going.  He 
worships  the  ground  she  walks  on,  fact!  That 
was  the  reason  his  challenge  night  was  a  frost — 
didn't  you  hear  about  his  challenge  night?  He 
bet  that  no  twelve  men  in  Blithepoint  could  pull 
him  over  the  line.  Then  he  got  drunk,  because 
she  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  him — 
and  they  pulled  him  all  over  the  place.  It  cost 
him  ten  pounds,  besides  his  reputation.  He 
cried.  "Ah,  little  girl,"  he  said  to  her,  "it  is  all 
through  you!"  ' 

"It  was  amazing,  that  on  the  stage  she  could 
not  act.  As  I  heard  her  tell  this  story,  I  would 
have  sworn  she  was  a  born  comedienne.  The  ex- 
aggerated dignity  of  Miss  Jones,  its  ludicrous 
collapse,  the  humiliation  of  the  Strong  Man,  she 
brought  the  scenes  before  me.  'Go  on,'  I  begged, 
*talk  some  more!' 

"But  before  she  could  talk  much  more,  the 


190    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  ^WOMEN 

obdurate  Miss  Jones  appeared.  I  was  preseiited, 
and  wished  them  'Good-night.'  I  could  have 
seen  them  to  their  lodging,  but — well,  Miss 
Jones's  attire  was  not  to  my  taste,  and  she 
had  forgotten  to  take  the  make-up  off  her  eyes. 

"I  am  writing  more  than  I  intended;  I  had  no 
idea  that  my  explanation  would  be  so  long! 

"The  next  night  I  did  walk  to  their  lodging 
with  them.  It  was  Saturday,  their  last  night  in 
the  town;  on  Monday  they  were  to  sing  in  a 
London  suburb.  Miss  Jones  had  to  leave  a  par- 
cel with  an  acquaintance  at  the  Theatre  Royal, 
and,  in  her  absence,  Betty  WiUiams  and  I  paced 
the  street  alone.  A  quarter  of  an  hour,  perhaps. 
She  was  looking  forward  to  the  week  at  home. 
She  was  serious  to-night ;  she  talked  to  me  of  her 
mother  and  the  'boys.'  I  said  I  hoped  she  would 
find  them  well;  and  we  shook  hands — 'Good-bye.' 
The  incident  seemed  closed,  but  I  went  away  with 
an  impression  I  had  never  experienced  before — 
the  impression  of  having  met  someone  who  ought 
to  have  been  my  very  good  friend. 

"When  I  breakfasted  on  the  morrow,  I  felt 
blank  in  realising  that  her  train  had  already  gone. 
Every  day  I  had  to  combat  a  temptation  to  run 
up  to  that  suburb.  When  my  holiday  came  to 
an  end,  I  wondered  if  she  was  in  town  still.  By 
a  music-hall  paper,  I  ascertained  that  The  Three 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS    191 

Sisters  Clicquot  were  in  Derby.  Each  week  I 
bought  the  paper  to  learn  the  movements  of  The 
Three  Sisters  Clicquot;  and  each  week  I  told 
myself  it  would  be  absurd  of  me  to  follow  her  sa 
far.    Eventually,  I  followed  her  to  Yorkshire. 

"What  a  town!  The  grey  grim  streets,  the 
clatter  of  the  clogs,  the  women's  hopeless  faces 
under  the  shawls!  I  put  up  at  a  commercial 
hotel — there  was  nothing  else — and  was  directed 
to  the  Empire. 

"Their  name  was  far  down  the  programme: 
'Number  10:  The  Three  Sisters  Chcquot.'  I  be- 
gan to  think  that  we  should  never  reach  it.  Num- 
ber 8  proved  to  be  a  conjurer,  and  my  heart  sank 
as  I  beheld  the  multitude  of  articles  that  he  meant 
to  use  before  he  finished.  Number  9  was  a  troupe 
of  acrobats ;  a  dozen  times  they  made  their  bows 
and  skipped  off — only  to  skip  on  again  and  do 
some  more.  At  last!  The  number  '10'  was  dis- 
played; the  little  plaintive  symphony  stole  from 
the  orchestra,  the  three  girls  filed  on — Eva 
Jones,  next  JVIiss  Clicquot,  then  Betty. 

"I  wondered  if  she  would  notice  me.  I  saw  her 
start — she  smiled.  I  was  so  pleased  that  I  had 
gonel  We  talked  presently,  in  the  passage  un- 
der the  stage.  She  was  very  much  surprised;  I 
did  not  tell  her  that  I  was  there  only  to  meet  her 
again.    Once  more  I  walked  with  her  and  Eva 


192    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Jones  to  their  door.    In  the  morning  I  called  on 
them. 

"I  stayed  in  the  place  four  or  five  days.  There 
were  luncheons  in  the  private  room  that  I  had 
been  able  to  secure  at  the  hotel.  I  went  to  tea 
with  them  at  their  apartments.  In  fine,  I  was 
very  much  in  love,  and  I  knew  that  I  had  been 
a  fool.  I  knew  it  for  a  reason  which  will  be  diffi- 
cult for  you  to  credit,  Duchess;  this  girl,  who 
took  a  brandy-and-soda  with  a  stranger  in  a  bar, 
who  accepted  little  presents  from  others,  and 
dined  with  men  who  had  only  one  motive  for  in- 
viting her,  remained  perfectly  virtuous.  In  dif- 
ferent classes  there  are  different  codes — she  did 
not  regard  her  behaviour  as  wrong;  more,  if  she 
had  committed  the  act  which  she  knew  to  be 
wrong,  she  would  have  broken  her  heart.  'No 
matter  how  much  a  man  cares  for  a  girl,'  she  said 
to  me  once,  'he  can't  hold  her  any  more  sacred 
than  she  holds  herself  at  the  beginning.  A  girl 
saves  herself  for  a  man  she  is  thinking  of;  she 
hasn't  seen  him — in  all  probability  she  never  will 
see  him;  but  she  is  saving  herself  for  him — the 
imaginary  man — from  her  head  to  her  heels! 
.  .  .  You  tell  me  I  "shouldn't  do  this,"  and  I 
"shouldn't  do  the  other" — I  don't  do  any  harm. 
If  you  knew  how  dull  it  is  on  tour,  you'd  under- 
stand my  taking  all  the  fun  I  can  get.    When  a 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS  19S 

fellow  asks  me  to  lunch,  I  go;  I  say  I'll  go  with 
another  girl — that  tells  him  everything,  doesn't 
it?  I  swear  to  God  I've  only  let  one  man  kiss 
me  in  my  life — and  then  I  only  did  it  out  of  pity, 
because  he  was  so  cut  up.  A  man  is  never  dan- 
gerous till  he's  beaten.  Do  you  know  that?' 
Well,  I  was  not  prepared  to  marry  her,  and  she 
could  be  nothing  to  me  if  I  didn't ;  I  left  York- 
shire with  the  firm  intention  of  never  seeing  her 
any  more. 

"However,  I  missed  her  dreadfully,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  month,  I  succumbed  again.  I  went  to 
Lancashire  this  time.  The  same  impatience  in 
my  stall,  the  same  quiver  of  expectancy  at  the 
plaintive  introduction  that  was  so  familiar  now, 
the  same  throb  as  the  three  girls  appeared. 
Why  should  I  bore  you  with  details  ?  I  was  with 
her  all  day,  every  day.  Tea  and  chatter  in  the 
lodging  became  an  institution,  and  we  grew 
serious  only  when  the  melancholy  dusk  signalled 
her  departure  for  the  hall.  She  was  not  fasci- 
nated by  her  career:  'How  I  hate  going  in!'  she 
murmured  sometimes,  as  we  reached  the  artists' 
entrance,  with  the  group  of  loafers  spitting  on 
the  kerb.  And  I  sat  in  front,  just  to  see  the 
turn,  and  talk  to  her  again  between  the  first  per- 
formance and  the  second — in  the  passage  at  the 
foot   of  the   dirty   steps,   where   such   draughts 


194    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

poured  through  the  slamming  door,  and  the  gas- 
jet  blew  crooked  in  its  cage. 

"She  was  fond  of  me;  I  knew  it.  I  had  only 
to  ask  her  to  marry  me — I  knew  that  her  consent 
wouldn't  be  due  to  my  position.  There  were 
moments  when  I  was  very  near  to  asking  her. 
But  I  was  Socoloski,  and  she — a  third-rate  va- 
riety artist.  I  shuddered  to  think  what  the  So- 
ciety ladies  would  say  if  their  god  stooped — for 
that  matter,  what  everybody  would  say.  No 
woman  could  have  been  more  different  from  the 
wife  I  had  pictured.  Yet  no  woman  had  ever 
been  so  truly  a  companion  to  me.  Always  a  bo- 
hemian  at  heart,  I  had  naturally  fallen  in  love 
with  a  bohemian;  but  when  he  draws  a  portrait 
of  the  wife  that  he  desires,  every  man  is  conven- 
tional. Besides,  you,  and  great  ladies  like  you, 
had  made  me  a  snob.  She  drove  with  me  to  the 
station  on  the  day  I  left.  She  knew  I  wouldn't 
go  to  her  again — I  heard  it  in  her  voice.  That 
was  the  only  time  I  felt  dull  when  I  was  with 
her — we  both  could  have  said  so  much  and  were 
allowed  to  say  so  little.  I  remember  the  look  in 
her  eyes  as  the  train  crept  from  the  platform.  I 
shall  always  remember  the  look  in  her  eyes  as 
she  smiled  on  the  platform ! 

"Even  a  weak  man  may  be  strong  sometimes 
— in  the  wrong  place ;  I  stuck  to  my  resolve.    At 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS  195 

first,  I  still  glanced  at  the  Encore,  just  to  know 
where  she  was,  but  before  long  I  denied  myself 
this,  too.  My  American  tour  started  soon  after- 
wards. The  change  helped  me  while  it  lasted, 
but  when  I  came  back  the  struggle  was  as  bad  as 
ever.  Six  months  had  passed,  yet  every  day  I 
hungered  to  see  her.  I  was  desperate.  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do  to  keep  myself  in  hand. 

"Duchess,  my  motive  in  addressing  you  is  to 
write  the  truth,  even  the  truths  that  one  blushes 
to  acknowledge.  When  I  welcomed  the  dawn  of 
your  interest  in  me,  I  turned  to  you  as  a  chance 
of  forgetting  her — I  did  not  mean  to  prove  so 
obtuse  as  I  appeared  last  night.  Perhaps,  a  gen- 
tleman might  have  seized  the  chance,  too,  but,  I 
suppose,  only  a  cad  would  own  it  to  you  after- 
wards. 

"And  I  couldn't  forget!  I  never  responded  to 
your  gaze  without  wishing  it  were  hers.  I  re- 
sented the  very  gowns  that  you  received  me  in, 
because  slie  was  poorly  dressed.  I  hated  myself 
for  being  in  your  drawing-room  while  she  was 
trudging  through  the  rain. 

"My  God!  it's  awful  to  think  like  that  of  a 
woman — to  have  the  thought  of  her  beset  you  as 
you  open  your  eyes  in  the  morning;  to  think  till 
you're  worn  out  with  thinking  of  her,  and  pray 


196    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

to  think  of  something  else;  to  think  of  her  till  you 
want  to  escape  from  your  own  mind! 

"Tolerate  me  a  little  longer — I  have  nearly 
done! 

"Last  Saturday,  it  was  a  year  since  I  had  seen 
her.  I  broke  down — I  was  ready  to  make  her  my 
wife.  I  wondered  if  she  would  look  as  pleased  as 
she  used  to  look  when  she  saw  me — and  then  I 
froze  at  the  thought  that  The  Sisters  Clicquot 
might  be  abroad,  that  they  might  have  vanished 
altogether.  When  I  searched  the  Encore  again, 
I There  were  emotions ! 

"'The  Three  Sisters  CHcquot'!  I  found  it. 
They  were  in  Portsmouth  on  Saturday;  yester- 
day they  were  to  be  in  town.  It  was  impossible 
for  me  to  go  to  Portsmouth ;  my  prayer  was  that, 
after  my  recital  yesterday,  I  might  reach  the 
London  hall  before  she  left.  I  had  no  means  of 
knowing  whether  their  turn  would  be  late  or 
early;  all  through  that  recital  I  was  torn  with 
the  fear  that  I  might  miss  her.  The  audience 
delayed  me  beyond  endurance — I  was  trembling 
when  I  escaped  from  them.  I  stumbled  into  the 
carriage,  and  told  the  man  to  drive  like  mad. 

"He  couldn't  find  the  stage-door,  and,  too  im- 
patient to  keep  still,  I  leapt  out  and  went  to  the 
box-office.  It  was  all  right,  they  hadn't  been  on 
yet!    There  could  be  no  chance  to  speak  to  her 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS    19T 

until  the  turn  was  over,  so — just  as  I  used  to  do 
— I  sat  down  to  wait  in  the  stalls.  Just  as  I  used 
to  do,  I  read  the  name  of  'The  Three  Sisters 
Chcquot'  in  a  programme  and  wished  that  the 
preceding  turn  didn't  last  so  long. 

"I  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  they  would  be 
giving  a  different  song  now — and  my  heart 
tightened  at  the  greeting  of  that  familiar  sym- 
phony again.  For  an  instant  I  could  not  look 
at  the  stage.  I  knew,  with  my  head  bent,  the 
moment  when  the  three  girls  filed  on;  I  knew 
where  they  were  moving,  how  they  were  standing 
— now  the  note  that  they  were  going  to  sing!  I 
looked  up  for  Betty's  face — and  saw  a  stranger. 

"Oh,  the  horrible  woman,  the  low,  horrible 
woman !  And  I  had  to  watch  her,  I  watched  her 
in  spite  of  myself.  The  audience  laughed  and 
shouted  while  I  sat  there  with  the  sickness  of  ter- 
ror in  me,  while  I  watched  that  horrible  woman 
posturing  in  Betty's  place,  and  wearing  the  frock 
that  Betty  had  worn. 

"Afterwards,  I  found  the  artists'  entrance,  as; 
I  had  proposed  to  find  it — only  I  asked  for  Eva,, 
instead  of  Betty.  She  came  down  to  me,  smiling, 
in  her  stage  costume. 

"  'Who'd  have  thought  of  seeing  you!'  she  ex- 
claimed, as  we  shook  hands;  'I  was  just  going 
to  change.' 


198    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"  'How  are  you?'  I  said  dully,  and  our  eyes 
questioned  each  other. 

"  'I  suppose  you  know  about  Betty?'  she  said. 

"I  could  only  look  at  her. 

"  'She's  dead,'  she  told  me. 

*'The  last  turn  was  on — a  comedian  was  bel- 
lowing doggerel.  I  listened  to  bars  of  it  before 
I  whispered,  'Dead?' 

"  'She  got  tj^phoid  when  we  were  in  Lincoln — 
she  died  last  month.    Hadn't  you  heard?' 

"  'No.  .  .  .  It's  still  "The  Three  Sisters  Clic- 
quot" on  the  bills.' 

"  'Oh,  yes,  of  course — it's  always  "The  Three 
Sisters  Clicquot."  .  .  .  The  new  girl's  not  as 
good  as  Betty  was — do  you  think  so?' 

"  'I  don't  know.' 

"The  comedian  was  dancing  now — I  heard  the 
Tattle  of  his  feet.  Shabby,  pasty-faced  men  kept 
hurrying  past  us  through  the  passage,  up  the  dir- 
ty steps;  the  door  at  the  top  was  slamming,  and 
the  gas-jet  blew  crooked  in  its  cage.  It  was 
strange  to  be  among  these  things  and  not  see 
Betty. 

"  'Good-bye,'  I  said.  'Did  she  ever  talk  of 
me  after  I  went?' 

"  'Sometimes.  She  wasn't  the  girl  to  say  much. 
Betty  liked  you,  though.' 

'I  liked  Betty,'  I  said.  .   .   .  'Well * 


<(  (-1 


A  LETTER  TO  THE  DUCHESS    199 


It  i^ 


'Well,'  she  said,  'I  must  get  along  and 
change.    Buck  up !' 

"And  then  I  went  to  you,  your  Grace;  I  had 
promised  to  play  to  your  guests,  and  I  could  not 
break  my  word.  But  you  may  understand  what 
I  was  feeling  while  I  played — that  my  thoughts 
were  in  a  grave.  And  when  we  were  alone,  you 
may  understand  that,  though  you  are  charming, 
and  beautiful,  and  a  duchess,  and  exalted  me  by 
your  caprice,  I  could  not  be  guilty  of  that — out- 
rage, that  adultery  towards  the  dead. 

"Most  humbly  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I  am 
grateful  for  the  honour  you  have  done  a  man  who 
was  unworthy — who  was  loyal  neither  to  you  nor 
her.  You  will  never  pardon  me  for  this  letter. 
Good-bye." 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE 

''The  carnage  is  at  the  door.  Madam/'  How 
strange  that  still  sounds  when  the  solemn  butler 
says  it — to  me,  Rosie  McLeod!  I  go,  wrapped 
in  furs,  down  the  great  staircase,  pass  the  two 
footmen — whose  pomposity,  •  if  I  may  own  the 
truth,  rather  frightens  me — and  enter  my  car- 
riage in  a  dream.  For  a  few  minutes  my  grand- 
eur seems  unreal;  I  am  remembering  winters 
when  I  used  to  shiver  in  a  spring  jacket,  and 
japan  my  summer  straw.  I  feel  as  Cinderella 
must  have  felt  on  her  way  to  the  Ball,  and,  in- 
deed, I  hold  my  history  no  less  fairy-like  than 
hers,  and  my  hero  no  less  charming  than  her 
Prince.  I  want  to  write  the  tale,  and  to  think 
that,  far  away  in  dear  old  England,  other  girls 
will  read  it.  I  ought  to  explain  that  I  am  writ- 
ing in  New  York,  a  city  that  I  never  expected  to 
see  in  all  my  life.  But  let  me  begin  at  the  be- 
ginning! 

The  beginning,  then,  was  a  draughty  flat  in 
West  Kensington.     In  looking  back  at  it  I  see 

200 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    201 

always  a  delicate,  sweet-faced  woman  sitting  by 
the  fire,  and  a  dark  slip  of  a  girl  sketching  at  a 
table  covered  by  a  faded  green  cloth.  The  wom- 
an was  my  mother;  the  girl  was  I.  I  know  now 
that  I  had  very  little  talent,  but  I  meant  to  be 
an  artist.  When  I  sold  my  copy  of  "Shoeing 
the  Bay  Mare"  one  morning,  while  I  was  work- 
ing at  the  National,  I  was  prouder  of  myself 
than  I  have  ever  been  since.  Pray  don't  think  I 
am  vain  of  it  now;  copies  of  that  were  rather 
easy  to  sell,  and  the  girls  in  my  time  were  accord- 
ingly eager  for  their  turn  to  begin  it;  I  only 
mention  the  matter  because  it  was  the  first  and 
the  last  money  that  my  mother  saw  me  earn. 
Dear  little  mother !  But  we  were  very  happy  to- 
gether, weren't  we,  although  we  were  poor? 
Dear  little  mother,  if  you  were  living  to-day, 
what  lovely,  lovely  things  you  should  have !  .  .  . 
At  her  death  I  was  left  quite  alone.  It  is  true 
that  I  had  some  second  cousins,  but  I  had  not 
met  them,  and  they  showed  no  desire  to  meet  me 
then.  From  one  source  and  another  I  had  about 
three  hundred  pounds,  and  in  my  ignorance  I 
expected  to  support  mj^self  by  my  brush  before 
the  sum  had  melted.  When  I  was  free  of  the 
flat  I  took  a  lodging  in  Bayswater,  and  continued 
to  study  at  a  life-class.  Excepting  that  I  worked. 


202   THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

and  hoped,  and  very  often  cried,  there  is  nothing 
to  tell  you  of  the  next  two  years. 

Then  one  afternoon  I  saw  Miss  Niblett  in 
Kensington  Gardens.  She  was  an  artist  who  had 
long  been  an  acquaintance  of  ours.  As  far  back 
as  I  remember  she  used  to  drop  in  to  tea  about 
twice  a  year,  and  talk  of  the  great  things  she 
was  going  to  do.  She  never  seemed  to  grow  any 
older,  nor  to  do  the  great  things.  She  was  a 
spirited,  chirpy  little  woman,  and  when  she  set- 
tled in  Paris  both  my  mother  and  I  had  missed 
her  occasional  visits  very  much.  In  the  Broad 
Walk  she  greeted  me  as  brightly  as  ever,  and  we 
strolled  to  the  Round  Pond,  and  talked  for  an 
hour.  She  was  returning  in  a  week's  time,  and 
I  heard  that  she  was  living  there  in  the  cheapest 
possible  way,  occupying  a  studio  and  bedroom  in 
the  quarter  called  "Montparnasse,"  and  market- 
ing and  cooking  for  herself.  She  told  me  of  the 
great  things  she  was  going  to  do. 

"Why  don't  you  come  back  with  me,  child?" 
she  asked  presently.  "Come  and  study  in  Paris, 
and  then  you  won't  be  so  lonely.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to?" 

"I  should  love  it,"  I  faltered,  with  a  heart- 
thump,  "but " 

"But,  what?" 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    203 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  For  one  thing,  I  can't 
speak  French." 

"Tut,"  cried  Miss  Niblett.  "Hundreds  of  the 
girls  don't  speak  French.  You'll  learn."  For  a 
minute  we  sat  silent,  gazing  at  the  toy  ships  sail- 
ing across  the  pond.  Then  she  added  briskly, 
"You  had  better  come!" 

"All  right,"  I  said.    And  that  was  how  I  went. 

Yes,  I  went  to  study  in  Paris,  and  to  live  in 
the  queerest  fashion  imaginable.  Our  rooms 
were  up  ninety-eight  stairs  of  a  dingy  house  in 
a  dilapidated  court.  At  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing the  court  used  to  wake,  and  be  so  exceedingly 
busy — and  cheerful  withal — that  anyone  there 
would  have  been  ashamed  to  lie  abed.  To  begin 
with,  there  was  the  rushing  of  water  outside,  for 
tap  there  was  none,  and  one  by  one  the  tenants 
clattered  to  a  pump  with  a  bucket,  to  obtain  their 
supply  for  the  day.  Then  the  hawkers  made 
their  appearance,  each  with  his  own  peculiar 
chant.  "It  arrives,  it  arrives,  the  mackerel!  Who 
wishes  for  my  fine  mackerel  this  morning?"  And 
"The  mussels !  the  mussels  most  delicious !"  And 
"Some  milk — some  fresh  milk?"  And  I  mustn't 
forget  the  noise  that  was  made  by  shaking  out 
the  rugs  from  every  window.  I  have  never  seen 
a  city  that  opens  its  eyes  so  good-humouredly  as 


204-    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Paris.  In  pictures  it  is  always  shown  to  us  at 
night  with  its  myriad  lamps  shining,  or  in  the 
afternoon  when  it  is  frivolous,  and  its  fountains 
flash ;  but,  in  my  own  little  unimportant  opinion, 
if  one  would  know  Paris  at  its  sweetest  and  its 
best,  one  should  get  up  very,  very  early,  and  be- 
hold it  smiling  when  it  wakes  to  work. 

I  have  told  you  that  we  lived  up  ninety-eight 
stairs;  I  must  tell  you  something  about  the  peo- 
ple who  lived  on  the  lower  landings.  Of  course 
the  lower  the  landing,  the  higher  the  rent,  but 
none  of  our  neighbors  had  an  air  of  opulence, 
need  I  say  it?  All  of  them  bustled  to  the  pump 
with  pails,  all  of  them  cooked  their  own  meals; 
and  it  was  rather  a  rare  occurrence,  I  believe,  for 
everybody  in  that  house  to  cook  a  dinner  on  the 
same  day.  On  the  floor  below  ours  there  was  a 
madame  Troquet,  who  painted  fans  and  choco- 
late boxes  for  a  livelihood — the  expensive  and 
gorgeous  boxes  covered  with  satin,  which  for- 
tunate people  have  sent  to  them  at  Christmas, 
and  on  their  birthdays.  Still  lower  there  was  an 
American  youth  who  was  studying  INIedicine.  I 
am  afraid  he  did  not  study  it  very  hard ;  I  should 
be  sorry  to  think  that  if  I  were  ill  in  America 
one  day,  he  might  be  called  in  to  prescribe  for 
me.    Lower  still  there  were  two  young  French- 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    205 

men;  one  of  them  wrote  verses,  and  his  compan- 
ion made  sketches  for  some  of  the  papers.  And 
— there  was  another  American,  who  had  moved 
in  while  Miss  Niblett  was  in  London.  So  good- 
looking  ! 

He  was  about  seven-and-twenty,  and,  oh!  he 
was  shabby.  It  made  my  heart  ache  to  see  the 
threadbare  clothes  he  wore,  even  there  where  I 
had  come  to  take  threadbare  clothes  for  granted. 
I  used  to  meet  him  at  the  pump  sometimes,  and 
then  he  always  insisted  on  carrying  my  pail  for 
me.  I  felt  horrid  to  let  him  do  it.  I  guessed  he 
didn't  have  enough  to  eat  and  needed  all  his 
strength  to  drag  his  own  pail  up  the  stairs.  Not 
that  he  showed  any  signs  of  weakness.  He  would 
mount  beside  me  as  gaily  as  if  he  liked  the  work 
and  the  bucket  were  no  more  than  a  feather- 
weight.   He  seemed  quite  strong  and  happy,  and 

I  have  told  you  how  nice-looking  he  was, 

haven't  I? 

A  girl  cannot  allow  a  young  man  to  carry  a 
pail  of  water  up  ninety-eight  stairs  for  her  with- 
out thanking  him.  I  mean  it  was  impossible  for 
me  just  to  say  "Thank  you,"  as  if  he  had  handed 
me  the  toast,  or  picked  up  my  sunshade.  Of 
course  we  spoke  as  we  went  up  the  stairs.  He 
told  me  he  was  an  art  student,  like  me,  and  I 


206    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

thought  that  no  poor  young  man  had  ever  been 
more  courageous  and  contented  with  his  lot — if 
one  call  a  little  a  "lot."  He  talked  as  if  he  loved 
the  life.  To  listen  to  him  one  would  have  imag- 
ined that  poverty — "bohemianism"  he  termed  it 
— was  a  kind  of  treat — a  privilege  for  the  Select, 
hke  a  ticket  for  the  Royal  Enclosure.  I  used  to 
forget  to  pity  him  till  I  looked  at  his  coat. 

"I  think  you  are  very  brave,"  I  couldn't  help 
saying  once. 

"Brave?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  how's  that? 
Where's  the  hardship?  I  think  it's  just  the  right 
thing  for  a  man  to  carry  home  his  bread  for 
breakfast,  and  dine  for  a  franc  when  he's  flush. 
It's  glorious — teaches  him  to  be  independent. 
And  you?"  he  went  on  in  a  different  tone.  "Is 
it  very  hard  for  you?''' 

"Oh,  I  am  one  of  the  wealthy — for  the  time 
being,"  I  laughed.     "I  have  quite  a  fortune  as 

yet." 

"What  shall  you  do  when  you  have  squandered 
your  milhons?"  People  did  not  stand  on  cere- 
mony with  one  another  at  our  pump. 

"Paint,"  I  said. 

"Nobody  to  help  you?"  he  asked. 

*'My  own  right  hand,"  said  I. 

He  regarded  it  ruefully.    "The  prospect  is  not 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    207 

so  charming  as  the  hand,"  he  murmured,  "is  it?" 

"It's  glorious,"  I  declaimed,  "for  a  girl  to 
carry  home  her  bread  for  breakfast,  and  dine  for 
a  franc  when  she's  flush." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  he  said.  "For  a  girl  it's  a  dif- 
ferent thing  altogether.  You'll  excuse  my  con- 
tradicting you?  Besides,  even  a  franc  wants 
earning  when  you  have  no  allowance  from  home." 

"I  shall  sell  my  Work,"  I  declared  valiantly. 
In  those  days  I  always  spelt  my  work  with  a  cap- 
ital W. 

"I  guess  pictures  take  a  deal  of  selling  some- 
times." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  you  don't  think  I 
shall  ever  paint  well?" 

"I  haven't  seen  anything  you  have  done,"  he 
answered;  "how  could  I  mean  that?  .  .  .  Here 
we  are  at  the  top!" 

We  had  reached  our  door,  and  Miss  Niblett 
was  standing  there,  a  stiff  little  figure  of  disap- 
proval. Considering  that  I  was  only  showing 
the  young  man  simple  civility  in  return  for  his 
extreme  kindness,  I  am  bound  to  say  that  Miss 
Niblett's  later  remarks  were  absurd.  Miss  Nib- 
lett said  she  should  go  downstairs  with  the  pail 
herself  in  future. 

When  she  came  up  the  next  morning  I  was 


208    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

all  ears.  Was  she  alone?  .  .  .  No,  I  could  hear 
her  speaking;  and  then  there  were  steps,  as  some- 
one turned  away.  "That  Mr.  Martin  is  certain- 
ly polite,"  she  said,  as  she  entered;  "he  insisted 
on  bringing  it  up  for  me." 

''Who  did?"  I  inquired  loftily. 

"That  Mr.  Martin,"  she  repeated.  "Who 
else  do  you  suppose  would  take  the  trouble?" 

"Oh!  I  didn't  know  his  name  was  'Martin,'  " 
I  explained.  "You  seem  to  be  on  very  friendly 
terms  with  him." 

"Tut,"  said  Miss  Niblett.  "Don't  be  ridicu- 
lous, child,  and  make  haste  with  the  coffee,  do!" 

Though  I  did  not  meet  Mr.  Martin  at  the 
pump  any  more,  I  very  often  chanced  to  meet 
him  on  my  way  home  from  the  art  school.  Each 
time  I  liked  him  better,  and  of  course  I  knew  I 
wasn't  doing  all  the  liking  myself.  He  never 
said  anything,  but  a  girl  can  always  tell,  can't 
she?  When  I  heard  of  the  shifts  that  some  of 
the  young  men  in  the  house  were  put  to  for  a 
meal,  and  thought  that  his  straits  must  be  as  cruel 
as  any  of  them,  I  could  have  cried.  There  were 
moments  when  food  almost  choked  me,  as  I  pic- 
tured him  sitting  half  starved  in  his  room,  his 
chin  sunk  on  his  breast.  I  never  saw  him  with  his 
chin  sunk  on  his  breast — ^never  despondent  in  any; 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    209 

way — ^but  I  was  sure  his  buoyancy  was  just  put 
on  to  hide  his  sufferings. 

When  I  had  been  Hving  in  the  court  for  about 
two  months,  the  sight  of  his  coat,  and  the  idea  of 
his  privations,  proved  too  bad  to  be  borne.  We 
had  become  such  comrades  by  then — for  the  walk 
from  the  school  took  a  long  time,  especially  if 
one  didn't  walk  very  fast — that  I  thought  he 
would  let  me  speak  like  a  sister  to  him. 

"Mr.  Martin,"  I  murmured  one  day  as  we 
went  home,  "I  want  you  to  do  me  a  great  favour, 
please." 

"Why,  certainly,"  he  said.  "Right  now !  What 
is  it?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "we  are  both  students,  and  we 
are  very  good  friends,  and  it's  all  nonsense  for 
you  to  reply  that  because  I'm  a  girl  you  can't  re- 
gard me  as  a  real  chum."  And  when  I  had  stam- 
mered that,  I  turned  red,  and  gazed  at  the  tips 
of  my  shoes. 

"But  I  haven't  replied  anything  of  the  sort," 
he  said,  with  a  laugh;  "I'm  waiting  to  hear  what 
you  want  me  to  do." 

"You  won't  be  offended?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  sure  I  could  never  be  offended  with  you,'^ 
he  said  earnestly. 

"Or  hurt?"  I  added 


^10    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"I'm  sure  you  would  never  hurt  me." 

"Well,  then,  I  want  you  to  let  me  lend  you  a 
little  money  till  things  are  better.    Will  you?" 

His  eyes  widened  at  me ;  and  then  he — blushed. 
He  did,  he  blushed ;  I  saw  the  colour  spread  right 
up  to  his  temples.  I  hated  myself,  though  I  had 
done  my  best  to  say  it  all  delicately. 

"I  am  very,  very  grateful  to  you,"  said  Mr. 
Martin.  "Believe  me,  I'm  not  in  need  of  money. 
But  you're  a  chum,  indeed." 

"Oh,  you're  too  proud  to  confess,"  I  gulped — 
and  there  was  a  lump  in  my  throat  that  I  couldn't 
swallow. 

We  were  crossing  one  of  the  bridges,  and  I 
stopped  and  looked  at  the  sun  sinking,  while  I 
tried  to  blink  my  tears  back.  He  stood  there  by 
me,  and  was  quiet  for  a  minute.  When  he  spoke, 
I  hardly  recognised  his  voice,  it  trembled  so 
much. 

"Will  you  tell  me  something?"  he  whispered. 

I  nodded. 

"Why  did  you  say  this  to  me?" 

"Because  I  know  you  are  poor,  and  Fm  poor 
and  can  understand.  But  I  could  spare  a  small 
sum  easily,  and  I  thought  you'd  be  great  enough 
to  let  me  help  you." 

"You  have  helped  me,"  he  answered;  "helped 
me  to  ask  you  a  question  that  I  hadn't  the  pluck 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    211 

to  put.  .   .    .  Dear  little  chum,  do  you  care  for 
me?" 

"Yes,"  I  told  him. 

"Enough  to  wait  till  a  pauper  can  afford  to 
marry  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  told  him. 

"I  love  you,"  said  Mr.  Martin,  "with  all  my 
heart!" 

And  the  boats  were  sailing  down  the  river,  and 
a  crowd  was  on  the  bridge,  but  I  couldn't  see 
them.  In  all  Paris  there  was  no  one  but  our- 
selves.  We  were  alone  in  the  sunset — he  and  I! 

I  knew  what  Miss  Xiblett  would  say,  and  she 
said  it — "Tut!"  She  warned  me  that  I  was  do- 
ing a  rash,  an  improvident  thing.  And  after  she 
had  reproached  herself  for  bringing  me  to 
France,  and  prophesied  a  hopeless  waiting  and 
the  workhouse  for  me  by  turns,  she  hugged  me 
splendidly,  and  wished  me  happiness.  There 
you  have  jNIiss  Niblett! 

Then  my  fiance  was  invited  up  to  supper,  and 
we  were  merry.  I  was  annoyed  to  see  that,  while 
I  was  making  the  salad,  she  had  examined  him 
about  his  prospects.  Of  course  I  did  see  it,  when 
I  came  back,  by  his  embarrassed  look  and  Miss 
Niblett's  air  of  dissatisfaction.  Still  I  repeat 
that  we  were  merry  that  evening,  although  I 
could  not  help  regretting  that  I  had  so  often 


212    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

spoken  to  her  of  my  fear  that  he  didn't  get 
enough  to  eat.  It  wasn't  quite  nice,  while  we 
sat  at  supper,  to  think  she  was  reflecting  that  a 
substantial  meal  was  by  way  of  being  a  novelty 
to  my  lover.    It  hurt  me,  that. 

Good  httle  Miss  Niblett !  Though  she  had  let 
me  prepare  the  supper  so  that  she  might  have  a 
chance  to  pester  him  with  questions,  she  made 
amends  by  clearing  the  things  away  herself. 
And  shut  the  door  behind  her!  That  was  the 
first  time  he  kissed  me.  After  all  that  has  hap- 
pened since,  the  scene  remains  clear  and  living 
to  me — the  little  lamp-lit  room,  half  studio,  half 
parlour,  the  scent  of  the  mignonette  in  the  open 
window,  and  the  Promised  Land  I  saw  beyond. 
When  I  am  old  and  grey,  it  will  be  living  to  me 
still — his  voice,  his  touch,  and  the  joy  that  was 
singing  in  my  heart. 

And  by-and-by  we  all  went  out.  *'I  have  pen- 
nies to  spend,"  pleaded  my  lover,  "let's  be  lav- 
ish!" Could  I  be  wise  on  such  a  night?  Away 
we  sped  from  Montparnasse  into  the  Paris  where 
the  cabs  darted  and  the  cafes  glittered;  and  we 
had  syrups  and  fizzy  waters  under  the  trees  in  the 
starlight,  and  made  believe  that  we  were  rich.  I 
thought  Miss  Niblett  must  have  been  in  love  her- 
self once  upon  a  time — she  was  so  tactful.  It  was 
a  long  ramble  that  we  took.     Like  children  we 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    213 

joked  outside  a  jeweller's  window,  pretending  to 
choose  the  costliest  of  engagement  rings ;  like  va- 
grants we  loitered  by  a  great  house  where  a  re- 
ception was  being  held.  Yes,  we  stood  there  on 
the  pavement  and  watched  the  grand  people  ar- 
riving ;  and  for  the  first  time  for  hours  I  remem- 
bered we  were  poor. 

"Why  aren't  we  going  to  a  party?  How  lovely 
it  would  be!" 

"Are  you  keen  on  parties?"  my  lover  asked, 
"Perhaps  I  could  take  you  to  one  this  week. 
Shall  I  try?" 

"A  party  like  that?"  I  laughed.  "Yes,  please!" 

"Ah,  well,"  he  replied,  "I  can't  guarantee  that 
it  will  be  quite  like  that.  Still,  I  guess  it  will  be 
rather  fun.    Will  Miss  Niblett  go,  too?" 

"I?"  she  exclaimed.     "Don't  talk  nonsense!" 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  "which  is  the  best  place 
in  this  city  to  hire  a  suit  of  dress-clothes  for  the 
evening.  ]My  social  gaieties  have  given  me  no 
cause  to  find  out." 

That  was  all.  We  turned  homeward.  I 
thought  with  Miss  Niblett  that  he  had  been  talk- 
ing nonsense.  Imagine  how  surprised  I  was  to 
hear  him  revive  the  subject  after  a  day  or  two. 

"Well,  it's  all  right,"  he  said;  "I've  managed 
it.    We're  invited." 

"Invited?"  I  echoed.     "Invited  where?" 


214    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Why,  to  the  festivity  to-morrow  night." 

"But,"  I  cried,  "you  didn't  really  mean  it,  did 
you?  You  didn't  suppose  I'd  go?  The  people 
are  strangers  to  me." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  he  answered.  "In  So- 
ciety they  often  go  to  strangers'  parties.  It's 
rather  chic." 

"Well,  we  aren't  in  Society,"  I  reminded  him. 
"I'm  not  chic.  I  can't  go  junketing  with  a  lot 
of  students  I've  never  seen  before." 

"You'll  never  be  a  bohemian,  Rosie,"  he  said; 
*'you  don't  seem  to  catch  on  to  the  tone  of  the 
quarter  at  all.  Now,  do  come !  If  you're  a  good 
girl  3^ou  shall  be  rewarded.  You  see  I  have  my 
clothes  ready,  and  it  would  disappoint  me  some 
not  to  get  a  chance  to  show  'em  off." 

He  made  such  a  point  of  it  that  I  promised. 
But  I  wasn't  pleased.  Besides  being  reluctant  to 
intrude,  I  was  annoyed  at  the  thought  of  having 
put  him  to  expense.  Also  the  idea  of  his  going 
to  a  party  in  a  hired  suit  was  distasteful  to  me. 
I  went  to  my  school  as  cross  as  two  sticks. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  ran  upstairs  in  a 
great  hurry  to  borrow  our  newspaper.  I  won- 
dered why  he  wanted  it,  for  he  always  read  JLe 
3Iatin,  and  we  took  The  New  York  Herald. 
However,  we  were  busy,  and  let  him  have  it, 
though  we  hadn't  looked  at  it  ourselves  yet.  We 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    215 

were  busy  examining  the  white  silk  frock  that  I 
meant  to  wear.  I  was  for  freshening  it  with  some 
new  tulle,  and  Miss  Niblett  kept  saying  that  it 
would  be  folly  to  spend  the  money.  The  argu- 
ment lasted  such  a  long  time  that  I  didn't  go  to 
school  at  all  that  day.     Miss  Niblett  won. 

And  then  behold  an  afternoon  of  amazement! 
As  I  was  boiling  the  kettle,  there  came  a  rap  at 
the  door,  and  whom  should  I  admit  but  a  stylish 
young  woman  with  a  note  and  a  large  box !  The 
note  consisted  of  four  words — "Frills  for  the 
Fairest,"  and  the  box  contained — a  dress.  But, 
my  dears,  a  dress  that  I  can't  describe  to  you! 
I  should  need  a  page  to  do  it  justice;  such  a  dress 
as  the  fairy  godmother  might  have  created  when 
she  changed  a  pumpkin  to  a  chariot. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  I  gasped. 

"Is  that  from  him?"  stammered  Miss  Niblett. 

"Oh,  don't  you  know  it's  from  him?"  I  cried 
hotly.  "Now  I  see  why  you  wouldn't  let  me  buy 
the  tulle!  But  how  can  he  have  paid  for  it,  and 
how  could  you  encourage  him?" 

I  thought  she  was  going  to  cry.  "Rosie,"  she 
whimpered,  "he  told  me  he  wanted  to  give  you 
a  dress,  and  asked  me  to  help  him,  but  I  never 
imagined  he  meant  a  dress  like  that ;  I  didn't  in- 
deed! How  could  I?  Oh,  my  child,  look  at  the 
name  on  the  lid — look  where  it  comes  from!" 


216   THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Mademoiselle  will  try  it  on?"  suggested  the 
young  woman  coolly. 

''What  does  she  say?"  I  demanded.  She  spoke 
French,  of  course.  It  is  to  be  hoped  she  didn't 
understand  English. 

"She  says  you  had  better  try  it  on." 

"This  is  madness,"  I  faltered.  I  looked  from 
the  young  woman  to  Miss  Niblett ;  I  looked  from 
Miss  Niblett  back  to  the  frock.  "Madness!"  I 
repeated — and  tried  it  on.  Oh,  what  a  frock! 
There  were  exclamations,  and  pins,  and  stitches. 
And  in  the  middle  of  it  all  came  another  bang  at 
the  door. 

A  porter  in  uniform  stood  on  the  landing.  He, 
too,  bore  a  note  and  a  box;  he,  too,  behaved  as 
if  miracles  happened  every  day  in  the  year. 

Four  words  again — "Suede  for  the  Sweetest." 

Gloves,  if  you  please ! — a  stack  of  them  with  I 
can't  tell  you  how  many  buttons,  and  the  faintest 
odour  of  violets.  I  know  now  that  in  the  whole 
of  Paris  there  is  only  one  shop  that  sells  gloves 
quite  like  those;  and  that  they  are  famous  all 
over  the  world. 

A  knock  at  the  door!  By  this  time  we  opened 
it  speechlessly — we  just  glanced  at  each  other, 
and  tottered.  And  again  four  words — "Bonds 
for  the  Best."    I  tore  off  the  brown  paper  with 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    217 

hands  that  shook.  Under  the  brown  paper,  tissue 
paper ;  under  the  tissue  paper,  the  ghnt  of  velvet, 
pale  blue;  I  drew  out  a  jewel  case;  I  pressed  a 
spring,  and 

"Oh,  gracious!"  screamed  Miss  Niblett. 

Shimmering  on  the  satin  with  which  the  case 
was  lined  lay  a  "rope"  of  pearls  fit  for  an  em- 
press. 'Not  even  a  string — a  "rope"!  Three 
times  round  the  neck  it  would  wind,  and  hang 
almost  to  the  waist.  We  fell  on  to  the  sofa,  dazed. 

"Are  they  real?"  Miss  Niblett  panted.  "Oh, 
my  dear!  Give  me  the  case.  My  dear!  They 
are  real,  I'm  sure  they  are.  Oh,  my  dear!  they 
must  be  worth  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
pounds.    What  does  it  all  mean?" 

And  for  the  rest  of  the  day  not  a  glimpse  of 
my  fiance,  not  a  message  from  him,  JNIonsieur 
Martin  was  out,  the  concierge  told  us  when  we 
inquired.  It  had  been  arranged  that  he  should 
come  for  me  at  ten  o'clock,  and  at  half-past  eight 
I  began  to  dress.  We  lit  every  candle  in  the  flat 
that  evening.  At  five  minutes  to  ten  I  was  ready 
— all  but  one  glove.  We  sat  trembling  with  cu- 
riosity. Then  we  heard  him — singing  on  the 
stairs ;  and  he  tapped  as  the  hour  struck. 

"Now!"  we  both  cried.  "Perhaps  you'll  ex- 
plain?" 


218    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

If  his  clothes  weren't  his  own,  he  had  discov- 
ered a  remarkable  establishment;  I  noted  that, 
despite  my  dizziness.  I  fancy  I  have  mentioned 
how  nice-looking  he  was,  but  I  had  never  really 
done  him  justice  before.  He  was  worthy  to  take 
his  frock  out.  He  stood  there  admiringly,  pre- 
senting a  bouquet. 

"Explain?"  he  murmured.  "Oh,  you  mean 
those  things  I  sent  you?  My  dear  ladies,  pa- 
tience is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  virtues — • 
let  us  cultivate  it !  Rosie,  you're  a  dream  of  love- 
liness. I  thought  perhaps  you'd  like  a  few  flow- 
ers.    Shall  we  go?" 

And  we  went.  I  had  expected  to  see  a  cab  at 
the  corner;  there  was  a  brougham,  with  a  foot- 
man waiting  on  the  kerb. 

"Not  mine,"  said  the  Man  of  Mystery,  "I  as- 
sure you.    Hired." 

"Like  your  clothes?"  I  flashed. 

"Much  more  so,"  he  said  serenely.  "Would 
you  prefer  the  window  up,  or  down,  dear?" 

"Either,"  I  said,  "if  you'll  tell  me  where  we're 
going." 

"Why,  to  the  party,"  he  replied;  "I  thought 
you  knew." 

"You  don't  ask  me  to  believe  we're  going  to 
a  student's  supper,  dressed  hke  this?" 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    219 

"Well,  no,"  he  said.  "I  guess  we'd  be  a  trifle 
overpowering,  eh?  But  I  never  told  you  it  was 
a  student's  supper.  That  student  was  an  inven- 
tion of  your  own." 

We  rolled  along  luxuriously.  To  my  bewil- 
derment, it  seemed  that  all  the  capital  was  astir 
that  night.  Crowds,  crowds  everywhere  in  the 
brilliant  streets — Paris  was  a  panorama  of  lights 
and  faces.  After  a  while  we  began  to  move  more 
slowly,  other  vehicles  impeded  us.  I  could  hear 
the  jangling  of  horses'  bits,  the  orders  of  the  po- 
lice. 

"We're  drawing  close,"  said  my  lover. 

The  clatter  of  hoofs  was  to  right  and  left  of  us 
now.  From  the  window  I  saw  the  glare  of  car- 
riage lamps,  caught  ghmpses  of  great  ladies' 
gowns  and  jewelled  heads.  The  brougham  swung 
through  gates  into  a  courtyard. 

"We  are  there,"  said  my  lover. 

I  stood  on  the  steps  of  a  palace.  On  either 
side  of  me  soldiers  were  drawn  up,  startling, 
spectacular.  Music  swelled  through  the  door- 
way.   Flunkeys  bowed  at  our  approach. 

"Where  have  you  brought  me?"  I  whispered. 
"Whose  house  is  this?" 

"He's  called  the  President  of  the  French  Re- 
public," was  the  answer.    "Don't  be  shy." 


220    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

We  passed  through  the  dazzle  of  the  hall.  The 
lights  blinded  me,  and  the  scent  of  the  roses  was 
very  strong.  I  heard  great  names  spoken,  names 
that  made  me  catch  my  breath.  As  those  awe- 
inspiring  names  were  uttered,  the  scene  became 
more  and  more  unreal.  And  the  guests,  the 
guests  who  bore  the  historical  names,  looked  quite 
ordinary,  prick-me-and-I-shall-bleed  persons.  I 
think  that  was  the  most  vivid  impression  I  had  in 
the  Elysee — the  difference  between  the  persons 
and  their  names. 

Soon  through  the  throng — among  the  regal 
toilettes  of  the  women,  and  the  groups  of  dis- 
tinguished, "decorated"  men — I  grew  conscious 
of  the  figure  of  an  elderly  gentleman,  with  iron- 
grey  hair  and  a  rather  sad  smile,  moving  near  to 
us.  I  recognised  him  by  the  photographs  that  I 
had  seen — and  I  knew  it  was  the  President  him- 
self. 

"Now,"  said  the  voice  at  my  side,  "I'm  going 
to  present  you  to  him.  Try  to  look  as  if  you 
liked  it." 

For  an  instant  I  saw  the  other  end  of  the  glit- 
tering salon  turning  very,  very  small  and  dim, 
and  I  thought  I  was  going  to  faint.  I  hadn't 
the  slightest  notion  whether  I  ought  to  put  out 
my  hand  to  him,  or  kiss  his  hand,  or  sweep  a 
curtsey.    And  if  you  want  to  know  which  of  the 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    221 

three  I  did,  I'm  unable  to  tell  you ;  but  my  lover 
affirmed  afterwards  that  I  was  "real  charming" 
— and  you  may  take  his  word  for  it,  if  you  are 
kind  enough.  I  can't  pretend  that  it  convinces 
me,  for  I  never  felt  such  a  gawk  in  all  my  days. 

I  don't  know  how  long  we  stayed  at  the 
Elysee ;  I  have  a  vague  recollection  of  eating  an 
ice.  But  the  next  thing  I  remember  clearly  is 
our  entering  the  brougham  again,  and  driving 
away  into  the  fresh  sweet  air.  Then  I  leant  to- 
wards him. 

I  said,  "If  you've  any  consideration  for  me, 
you'll  answer  right  off  and  tell  mc  whether  I'm 
awake  or  asleep.  I  have  pinched  _nyself  three 
times,  and  I'm  still  not  sure." 

"You  darling!"  he  laughed.  "I  was  afraid 
you'd  read  it  all  before  I  confessed ;  that  was  why 
I  stole  your  newspaper." 

"So  you  did!"  I  exclaimed.  "Why  are  you 
in  the  paper?" 

"Well,  you  see,  ny  Rosie  Posy,  I  bought  those 
pearls  for  you  yesterday,"  he  said,  "and  I  had  to 
get  the  bank  to  identify  me;  I  suppose  the  jewel- 
lers chattered  last  night."  He  took  the  paper 
from  his  overcoat,  and  there,  if  you  can  beheve 
me,  by  the  light  of  the  little  electric  lamp  over 
our  heads,  this  is  what  I  saw: 


222    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"An  American  Millionaire's  Son  in 
montparnasse ! 

Mr.  Martin  McLeod  Plays  at 
Poverty  !  ! 

The  Extraordinary  Experiment  of  a 
Young  Crcesus  !  !  ! " 

After  that,  what  remains  for  me  to  tell  you? 
What  his  father  said?  Well,  his  father  didn't 
object  to  me  a  bit,  and  always  declares  that  Mar- 
tin's marriage  was  the  most  sensible  action  of  his 
life.  Though  that's  nonsense.  We  spend  six 
months  of  the  year  in  America,  and  the  other  six 
in  Europe.  Miss  Niblett  is  still  in  Paris.  I  am 
afraid  she  will  never  do  the  "great  things,"  but 
she  will  never  be  hard  up  any  more,  for  my 
"prince"  is  as  generous  as  he  is  rich.  The  story 
I  have  tried  to  write  is  finished.  Isn't  it  as  mar- 
vellous as  any  fairy  tale?  But  it  is  true!  And 
I  wonder  if  any  other  woman  has  ever  been  so 
blessed  as  I,  and  thank  God  for  my  great  happi- 
ness. 

''TJie  carriage  is  at  the  door.  Madam/' 
Oh,  is  it  indeed?    Well,  I  am  not  going  out 
just  yet,  for  there  is  a  little  girl  running  across 


THE  PRINCE  IN  THE  FAIRY  TALE    223 

the  room  to  say  that  "Mother  has  been  writing 
long  enough,  and  must  come  and  play."  And 
there's  JNIartie — ^Martie  with  his  arm  round  me, 
looking  down  in  my  face. 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD 

He  wished  he  were  dead.  It  was  not  a  phrase, 
a  verbal  extravagance;  he  wished  it.  The  only 
time  that  he  was  free  from  anxiety  was  when 
he  was  asleep.  His  days  were  full  of  hard  work, 
and  disappointments,  and  efforts  to  make  civil 
words  do  the  duty  of  money;  and  it  often  oc- 
curred to  George  Collier,  when  he  lay  his  head 
on  the  pillow,  that  if  no  to-morrow  morning  came 
to  disturb  him,  it  would  be  a  blessed  state  of 
things.    He  was  a  writer  of  humorous  books. 

When  he  married  Eva,  he  had  been  nine-and- 
twenty,  and  sanguine,  though  his  humour  did 
not  command  big  prices  so  far.  The  critics  were 
very  kind  to  liim,  and  Eva  was  very  admiring; 
and  he  went  on  writing  patiently.  But  by  de- 
grees he  saw  that  his  confidence  had  been  prema- 
ture. And  then  he  saw  that  his  marriage  had 
been  premature.  And  then  a  child  was  born; 
and  he  gave  up  his  ideals  and  sank  to  pot-boiling, 
and  the  pot-boiling  did  not  make  the  pot  boil  very 
violently,  either. 

A  baby  added  to  his  embarrassments  a  good 
deal.    The  long-clothes  seemed  no  sooner  bought 

224 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD  225 

than  it  needed  short-clothes;  and  before  he  had 
recovered  from  the  cost  of  these,  it  had  grown 
out  of  them.  The  nurse  appeared  to  lie  awake 
all  night  thinking  what  she  could  ask  for  next, 
and  she  was  a  superior  person,  with  imagination. 

To-day  there  were  school  fees  to  be  paid,  and 
Eva  was  no  longer  admiring,  and  their  address 
was  Pandora  Road,  Balham.  The  little  house 
to  the  right  was  called  "Broadlands,"  and  the 
one  to  the  left  was  called  "The  Towers";  and 
Colher,  in  a  fit  of  moroseness,  had  labelled  their 
own  house,  "The  Hut,"  and  made  enemies  among 
the  neighbours. 

Yes,  Eva's  sjTnpathy  had  worn  out,  like  the 
cheap  drawing-room  carpet.  Balham  and  Toot- 
ing had  got  on  her  nerves,  perhaps;  or  George, 
the  failure,  was  a  different  man  from  the  popular 
humorist  with  whom  she  had  pictured  herself 
driving  to  brilliant  receptions  in  fashionable 
gowns.  Anyhow,  when  he  reflected  that  there 
had  been  a  time  when  secretly  he  wrote  poetry 
about  her,  he  turned  hot. 

She  was  a  pale,  slight  woman,  with  grey  eyes 
and  fluffy  hair,  and  a  red  flannel  dressing-grown 
in  the  morning.  After  luncheon,  when  she  made 
her  toilette,  the  grey  eyes  acquired  a  soulfulness 
that  came  out  of  a  phial,  and  nobody  would  have 
suspected  the  tart  and  vulgar  reproaches  that 


226    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

could  fall  from  her  lips.  Had  she  been  what  she 
looked,  he  thought  sometimes,  contemplating  her 
wonderingly  when  an  acquaintance  was  pres- 
ent, his  courage  wouldn't  have  deserted  him  so 
soon.  But,  if  he  had  confessed  that  she  weighed 
on  him,  the  acquaintance  would  have  considered 
him  an  unappreciative  brute ;  she  looked  too  wist- 
ful, and  delicate,  and  fragile  to  weigh  on  anyone. 
He  was  forty  years  of  age,  and  soberly  and 
deliberately  he  wished  he  were  dead.  Only  one 
thing  deterred  him  from  making  away  with  him- 
self in  a  painless  fashion;  it  was  the  knowledge 
that  he  would  leave  her  and  Chick  unprovided 
for. 

This  was  his  frame  of  mind  when  he  came  to 
project  a  fraud.  He  saw  his  way  to  dying  com- 
fortably while  safeguarding  Chick  and  Eva  from 
want.  That  is  to  say,  he  saw  his  way  if  he  could 
raise  the  money  necessary  to  pay  the  premium; 
he  proposed  to  assure  his  life  and  commit  suicide. 

The  curious  part  of  it  was,  that  he  had  always 
been  a  very  scrupulous  man,  "as  honest  as  the 
day" — that  day  that  nobody  remembers.  He 
had  never  wronged  anyone  by  so  much  as  six- 
pence, and  could  have  confronted  a  cross-exam- 
ination without  a  tremor.  People  had  often  said 
that  he  was  "too  conscientious  to  get  on."    Yet 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD  227 

now  he  was  meditating  robbery  on  an  extensive 
scale  and  barely  perceiving  his  defection. 

A  man  whom  he  knew  very  well,  and  who  fre- 
quently dropped  in  of  an  evening,  was  Mr.  Hor- 
ace Orkney,  a  solicitor.  George  was  not  sensible 
of  any  strong  esteem  for  him,  but — perhaps  for 
that  reason — Orkney  looked  the  likeliest  person 
for  what  he  wanted ;  and  one  afternoon  he  betook 
himself  to  the  gentleman's  office. 

"I  have,"  he  said,  when  greetings  had  been  ex- 
changed, "come  on  rather  delicate  business.  I 
needn't  tell  you  that  what  I  am  going  to  say  is 
in  confidence." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Orkney,  playing  with  the  ends 
of  his  moustache. 

"The  fact  is,  things  aren't  going  well;  I'm 

deadly  tired  of  it  all,  and Well,  the  truth  is, 

I'm  anxious  to  make  away  with  myself." 

The  lawyer  was  only  thirty-six,  and  he  started. 
To   make   away   with   yourself?      Oh,   non- 


art 


sense 


I  mean  what  I  say,"  insisted  Collier;  "don't 
imagine  I'm  talking  through  my  hat — I  haven't 
come  here  to  waste  your  time.  But  my  life  isn't 
assured.  You  see  the  difficulty.  I've  got  to 
think  of  my  wife  and  child,  and  they'd  be  prac- 
tically penniless." 

"Assure  it,"  suggested  Mr.  Orkney,  with  a 


628    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

shrug;  "I  should  certainly  assure  my  life,  in  any 
case,  if  I  were  you.    But,  my  dear  Collier,  do  let 

me  dissuade  you  from  such  a — such  a 'Pon 

my  word!"  He  pulled  out  his  monogrammed 
handkerchief,  diffusing  an  agreeable  odour  of 
white  rose.    "You  upset  me  very  much." 

"I  won't  trouble  you  with  my  arguments;  I 
haven't  come  to  make  a  sensation,  and  be  talked 
round,  and  that  kind  of  thing.  My  mind  is  made 
up,  and  I  know  my  own  mind  better  than  any- 
body can  tell  it  to  me.  You  say,  'assure';  the 
point  is,  I  can't  assure,  because  I  can't  put  my 
hands  on  the  money." 

*'Oh,"  said  Orkney.  "What  did  you  think  of 
assuring  for?" 

"While  I  am  about  it  I  want  to  make  a  proper 
provision;  I  want  to  arrange  for  an  income  of, 
say,  four  or  five  hundred.  For  them  to  get  as 
much  as  that,  from  a  safe  investment,  the  pre- 
mium would  be  pretty  stiff.  A  year's  premium 
would  come  to — well,  I  reckon  it  three  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds.    Now,  my  idea  was " 

"Was — what?"  asked  the  solicitor,  blandly. 

George  was  nervous.     His  gaze  wandered. 

"My  idea  was,  that  you  might  be  willing  to 
advance  the  sum,  with  a  view  to  doing  me  a  turn, 
and  making  a  bit  at  my  death.  I — I'm  eager  to 
make  the  proposal  as  attractive  as  I  can.     If 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD  229 

you'll  let  me  have  three  hundred  and  twenty,  I'll 
fix  up  my  Will  at  once  and  leave  you  a  thousand. 
What  do  you  say?    I  think  it's  fair." 

Horace  Orkney  tapped  his  fingers  together 
pensively. 

"One  likes  to  do  a  pal  a  turn,  of  course,  but 
What  company  are  you  thinking  of,  any- 
how? You  seem  to  overlook  the  fact  that  in  a 
case  of  suspected  suicide " 

"I've  overlooked  nothing — I've  thought  it  aU 
out,  and  I  know  exactly  what  I  shall  do.  A 
cousin  of  my  wife's  has  a  cottage  in  Kent,  on  the 
Darenth.  We've  often  stayed  there.  The  lawn 
slopes  to  the  river,  and  there's  an  Indian  canoe. 
No  more  sohtary  place  could  exist.  Now,  I  can 
easily  contrive  so  that  we  get  an  invitation  to  go 
down  for  a  week.  One  evening  after  working 
hard  all  day,  I  shall  say  that  I'm  going  out  for 
a  breath  of  fresh  air ;  I  shall  ask  what  time  they're 
going  to  have  supper,  and  set  my  watch  by  their 
clock,  so  that  I  'mayn't  be  late.'  I  shall  ask  my 
wife  to  remind  me  of  something  I  have  to  do  in 
the  morning,  and  skip  through  the  window  in  the 
highest  spirits.  Well,  the  canoe  upsets.  Every- 
body knows  I  could  never  learn  to  swim." 

"But  your  intentions  may  change,  my  friend! 
And  if  they  do,  where  are  my  three  hundred  and 


230    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

twenty  pounds?  In  the  natural  course  of  things, 
you  may  live  for  thirty  or  forty  years." 

"I  thought,"  said  ColHer,  "of  waiting  till  the 
spring;  but  if  you  don't  think  it'd  look  suspicious, 
the  accident  can  occur  next  month.  There's  not 
much  risk  of  my  intentions  changing  in  a  month!" 

There  was  silence. 

"I'll  turn  it  over  in  my  mind,"  said  Orkney, 
at  last.  "Now  you  must  let  me  send  you  away; 
I'm  busy." 

Having  turned  it  over  in  his  mind,  he  agreed. 
He  provided  George  Collier  with  the  sum  of 
three  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  to  take  out  a 
policy,  and  George  made  a  Will  by  which  Hor- 
ace Orkney  was  bequeathed  one  thousand.  The 
rest  was  left  to  Eva,  who,  to  give  her  her  due,  was 
an  affectionate  mother. 

The  humorist  was  now  comparatively  content. 
It  was  already  November,  and  he  was  to  die  in 
April.  He  had  had  hopes  that  Orkney  would 
pronounce  it  safe  for  him  to  take  the  step  earlier, 
but  on  reflection  Orkney  had  said  that  the  spring 
would  be  best,  after  all. 

It  was  a  disappointment,  but  George  was  too 
grateful  to  complain  of  a  crumpled  rose-leaf.  He 
had  borne  the  slings  and  arrows  so  hopelessly 
that  he  told  himself  he  would  be  a  rotter  to  kick 
at  five  more  months;  he  was  not  unreasonable. 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD  231 

And,  as  the  weeks  wore  away,  his  satisfaction  in- 
creased. He  was  a  weary  man  looking  forward 
to  a  perpetual  holiday. 

There  was  a  serious  epidemic  of  influenza  in 
London  that  year.  Everybody  who  could  afford 
to  do  so  was  flying  to  the  watering-places,  or  the 
Continent;  and  among  those  who  remained  in 
town  and  were  laid  low,  was  ]Mrs.  ColHer.  This 
was  at  Christmas. 

The  doctor  did  not,  at  the  beginning,  regard 
her  case  gravely.  But  she  got  worse,  in  spite  of 
his  optimism,  and  after  a  fortnight  in  bed  she 
died. 

George  was  inexpressibly  shocked.  Though 
he  had  long  since  outlived  his  illusions  about  her, 
she  had  been  his  wife,  his  daily  companion.  To 
realise  that  she  was  gone  dismayed  him.  He  re- 
membered the  girl,  and  shed  tears  at  the  grave 
of  the  woman.  Xot  analysing,  not  drawing  the 
distinction,  but  just  grieving  honestly. 

After  she  was  buried,  as  he  sat  in  the  quiet 
parlour,  smoking  at  night,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  as  the  child  would  now  be  doubly  an  orphan, 
he  must  arrange  where  she  was  to  live  when  April 
came.  In  the  circumstances  she  would  be  an 
heiress,  and  he  wanted  her  to  be  suitably  brought 
up.  Fortunately,  he  had  a  maiden  sister  who 
could  be  depended  on  to  carry  out  his  wishes  in 


232    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

this  respect.  He  nodded  thankfully,  reflecting 
how  much  troubled  he  would  have  been  for 
Chick's  future  otherwise. 

And  January  came  to  an  end,  and  February 
began.  And  February  waned;  and  it  was  March. 

George  was  surprised  to  note  how  rapidly 
time  had  passed  since  the  funeral.  He  put 
"March  1st"  at  the  top  of  a  letter  veiy  slowly, 
and  sat  looking  at  it  with  startled  eyes.  A  month 
more,  and  the  consummation  would  be  reached. 
Poor  little  Chick,  he  would  have  to  leave  her ! 

Oddly,  now  that  the  end  of  it  all  was  so  near, 
he  felt  less  eager  than  he  had  done.  He  had 
been  conscious  of  late,  of  a  certain  enjoyment 
in  life — a  new  enjoyment.  The  quiet  parlour, 
with  his  pipe,  and  a  novel,  had  been  pleasant. 
He  had  gone  up  to  his  room  at  night  without  a 
groan,  and  seated  himself  at  his  desk  in  the  morn- 
ing with  an  unfamiliar  zest.  Only  a  month! 
Well,  let  him  make  the  most  of  it ! 

But  that  was  easier  to  say  than  to  do.  Death 
no  longer  figured  in  his  thoughts  as  a  perpetual 
holiday;  now  that  he  was  a  widower,  it  figured 
as  a  skeleton,  and  thrust  itself  into  the  cosiest 
hours.  Perhaps  Chick  was  on  his  knee  and  he 
was  stroking  her  hair — and  the  skeleton  clanked. 
Perhaps  he  was  writing,  in  the  small  hours,  in- 
terested in  his  work — and  the  skeleton  mocked 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD  233 

him.  What  was  the  good  of  Chick's  love,  when 
he  had  to  leave  her  directly?  What  was  the  good 
of  revising  a  chapter,  when  he  would  be  bones 
before  the  book  was  done? 

He  shuddered.  It  was  no  use  blinking  the 
truth;  the  fact  was,  the  conditions  had  altered. 
He  would  have  been  a  cheerful  man  to-day,  for 
all  his  pecuniary  worries,  if  he  had  been  allowed ; 
and  the  worries  themselves  looked  less  formi- 
dable, somehow.  Eva  had  made  the  worst  of 
everything,  and — Heaven  forgive  him! — had  al- 
ways been  a  muddler.  It  was  amazing  what  a 
difference  her  removal  made.  He  was  satisfied 
with  life  now,  and — he  knew  he  did  not  want  to 
die. 

At  last  he  determined  to  go  to  Orkney  and  beg 
to  be  released.  It  was  an  odious  task,  but  the 
alternative  was  more  obnoxious  still;  and  he 
went. 

Orkney  looked  at  him  in  blank  disapproval 
when  he  had  stammered  to  a  conclusion. 

"This  is  very  unbusiness-like,"  he  said,  "very 
unbusiness-like  indeed  You  put  me  in  a  most 
awkward  position,  Collier.  I  don't  want  to  see 
you  die,  of  course — I — I  hope  I  have  a  heart — 
but  an  agreement  is  an  agreement,  and  I  have 
pressing  need  for  a  thousand  pounds.  As  it 
happens,  I've  got  a  bill " 


234>   THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"You  see,"  said  George,  helplessly,  "there's 
the  child!  I  don't  like  to  leave  her  alone  in  the 
world." 

"I  thought  you  told  me,  at  the  time  of  your 
wife's  death,  that  she  could  go  to  an  aunt  in 
Dorking?" 

"Yes ;  I  did.    But Well,  I'm  very  fond  of 

her.    The  parting  is  devilish  hard." 

"I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  any  harder  this 
morning  than  when  you  came  here  and  made 
your  proposal.  I  did  a  friendly  thing  for  you, 
and  I  must  say  this  isn't  at  all  fair  treatment. 
It  wasn't  an  agreement  that  I  could  enforce,  you 
know — I  relied  on  your  honour.  And  now  you 
put  me  off  with  empty  excuses." 

"Don't  say  that,"  faltered  George.  "To  tell 
you  the  honest  truth — I  don't  know  how  it  is — 
since  I  lost  my  wife  I — I'm  not  so  depressed.  I 
feel  lighter,  and  there's  a  different  aspect  to 
things.     I  can't  explain  it." 

"No!"  said  Orkney,  firmly,  "I  won't  hear  it. 
I  won't  have  the  blame  laid  at  the  door  of  that 
poor  little  woman.  This  is  cowardly.  Collier. 
Be  a  man  and  say  that  you've  changed  your  mind 
and  are  trying  to  back  out." 

"Very  well,  then,"  replied  George,  "I've 
changed  my  mind.     I  want  to  live,  and  to  pay 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD  235 

you  the  thousand  pounds  as  soon  as  I  can  get 
it  together." 

The  solicitor  smiled  finely. 

"It  was  a  very  fair  rate  of  interest  for  the 
time  agreed  upon.     But  for  a  period  of  years 

Anyhow,  we  needn't  discuss  the  point!    So 

far  as  I  understand  your  position,  there  would 
be  very  little  prospect  of  your  repaying  even  the 
principal." 

"In  other  words,  you  won't  consent?" 

"I  regret,"  said  Orkney,  "I  regret  very  much 
that  you  should  have  put  such  a  suggestion  for- 
ward, because  I  am  unable  to  consent  to  it,  and 
it's  a  peculiarly  painful  one  to  refuse.  I  don't 
think  it  was  dehcate  of  you.  Collier;  it  wasn't 
good  taste." 

"  'Good  taste'  be  damned!"  said  George  hotly. 
"Finally,  you  insist  on  your  pound  of  flesh?" 

"Finally,"  returned  Orkney,  rising,  "I  repeat 
that  if  you're  a  man  of  honour,  there's  only  one 
thing  for  you  to  do." 

He  touched  the  bell,  and  George  slunk  out 
into  the  street. 

It  was  April  already;  he  had  either  to  break 
his  undertaking,  or  to  fulfil  it  without  delay.  In- 
stinctively he  saw  the  literary  value  of  the  situa- 
tion.   But  the  humorist  felt  no  desire  to  treat  it 


236   THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

humorously.    He  found  himself,  on  the  contrary, 
perpending  it  as  an  experiment  in  realism. 

To  the  devil  with  literature!  He  must  die  or 
tell  Orkney  that  he  was  going  to  sell  him !  Which 
should  it  be?  One  course  was  ghastly,  and  the 
other  was  disgraceful. 

He  vacillated  hourly  for  a  fortnight.  And 
Orkney,  meanwhile,  seemed  ubiquitous.  George 
could  not  take  a  walk  without  meeting  him ;  and 
Orkney  always  stopped  and  spoke,  and  asked 
him  very  coldly  how  he  was. 

George  used  to  struggle  for  composure,  but 
not  with  success.  Then  the  solicitor  would  ele- 
vate his  ej^ebrows  and  sigh  significantly;  and 
Collier  went  his  way,  feeling  despicable  and 
ashamed. 

"The  Pound  of  Flesh,"  "To  Be  or  Not  to  Be," 
— what  a  lot  of  titles  suggested  themselves  for 
the  story  that  might  be  written !  The  thought  of 
it  obsessed  him;  and  one  evening  he  actually  be- 
gan it.  The  impulse  was  foolish,  but  the  occupa- 
tion was  fascinating,  and  he  wrote  with  unaccus- 
tomed ease.  He  treated  the  subject  in  a  serious 
narrative. 

At  one  o'clock  he  came  to  a  point  where  he  had 
to  determine  what  the  end  was  going  to  be.  How 
was  it  to  end?  He  rose  and  paced  the  room,  re- 
filhng  his  pipe.     He  could  not  light  it — ^it  was 


WITH  INTENT  TO  DEFRAUD  237 

blocked.  He  wasted  five  minutes  on  it,  fuming. 
If  he  didn't  smoke,  he  couldn't  think. 

Formerly  he  had  annexed  his  wife's  hairpins 
in  such  emergencies;  and,  as  a  last  resource,  it 
occurred  to  him  that,  if  he  searched  in  the  ward- 
robe where  her  belongings  had  been  put  away,  he 
might  find  some  hairpins. 

The  key  was  on  his  own  key-chain,  and  he 
went  upstairs.  The  dead  woman's  trifles  had 
been  laid  on  the  shelves.  He  saw  her  work-bas- 
ket, and  her  dressing-case,  and  the  set  of  brushes, 
with  "E"  on  the  backs  in  silver,  that  he  had  given 
her  on  her  last  birthday.  There  was  a  hat  that 
she  had  been  trimming  when  she  was  taken  ill, 
with  the  needle  still  sticking  in  it. 

He  paused.  Momentarily,  what  he  was  doing 
seemed  sacrilege.  Then  he  opened  the  dressing- 
case  and  lifted  the  tray. 

There  were  hairpins  scattered  at  the  bottom. 
There  was  also  a  bundle  of  letters,  tied  with  rib- 
bon, and  directed  in  a  handwriting  that  looked 
familiar.  George  stared  at  it.  Was  he  making 
a  mistake,  or What  on  earth  had  the  cor- 
respondence been  about?  He  turned  white,  and 
pulled  the  ribbon  off. 

The  dates  that  the  letters  bore  were  of  the  last 
two  years.  There  was  nothing  criminal  in  them; 
but  they  were  a  man's  confidential  communica- 


238    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

tions  to  a  woman  he  loved.  They  spoke  of  the 
writer's  "sympathy,"  of  his  regret  that  he  could 
do  nothing  to  "alleviate  the  dreariness  of  her 
life."  There  were  frequent  allusions  to  what 
"might  have  been."  And  they  began,  "Dearest 
Mrs.  Collier,"  and  were  signed,  "Yours  with  de- 
votion, Horace  Orkney." 

George  stumbled  out  of  the  bedroom  and  re- 
turned to  the  parlour ;  he  sank  into  his  chair  there, 
with  knitted  brows,  pondering.  After  a  while 
he  picked  up  his  pen  again;  but  he  did  not  con- 
tinue the  story.    He  wrote : 

"Dear  Sir, — I  restore  to  you  herewith  cer- 
tain letters  of  yours,  for  which  I  have  no  use.  I 
perceive  that  the  late  Mrs.  Collier's  untimely  de- 
cease frustrated  your  hope  of  marrying  a  widow 
whose  natural  attractions  would  have  been  en- 
hanced by  the  possession  of  nine  thousand 
pounds,  and  I  tender  you  my  condolence.  The 
bequest  in  my  Will  will  stand.  But,  as  you  once 
pointed  out,  I  may,  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
things,  hve  for  forty  years  longer.  Believe  me 
I  have  every  intention  of  doing  so  if  I  can." 

And  he  did,  and  became  a  very  successful  man. 


DEAD  VIOLETS 

"If  you  ever  want  me,  write  to  me — I'd  come 
to  you  from  the  end  of  the  world!"  he  had  said; 
and  she  had  answered,  "I  shall  always  want  you, 
but  I  shall  never  wTite,  and  you  must  never 
come."     She  was  married. 

It  was  in  May  that  they  parted;  they  parted 
on  the  day  of  her  owning  that  she  cared  for  him. 
The  virtue  was  hers,  not  his ;  yet  because  he  loved 
her,  and  realised  that  she  was  too  good  a  woman 
to  defy  her  conscience  and  be  happy,  he  acqui- 
esced in  her  decision — refrained  from  pleading  to 
her,  refrained  from  trying  to  see  her  again. 

His  only  indulgence  was  to  send  violets  to  her 
home  in  Paris  for  the  ninth  of  December;  the 
ninth  of  December  was  her  birthday,  and  violets, 
she  had  once  told  him,  were  her  favourite  flower. 
He  did  not  scribble  any  greeting  with  them,  did 
not  even  enclose  a  card;  he  was  sure  that  she 
would  know  who  sent  them,  and  it  lightened  his 
pain  to  feel  that  she  would  know.  Indeed,  to 
recall  himself  to  her  thus  mutely  was  a  joy,  the 
only  joy  that  he  had  experienced  since  the  day 
of  the  "good-bye";  almost  it  was  as  if  he  were 

2?t) 


240    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

going  to  her,  that  moment  in  the  London  florist's 
when  he  held  the  flowers  that  would  reach  her 
hands;  she  did  not  seem  so  lost  to  him  for  the 
moment,  the  separation  did  not  seem  so  blank. 

The  next  year,  also,  he  sent  violets  for  the 
ninth  of  December.  His  emotions  it  is  true,  were 
less  vivid  this  time,  but  he  was  glad  to  show  her 
that  he  was  faithful ;  besides,  the  prettiness  of  the 
reminder  pleased  him. 

And  the  third  year  he  sent  them  chiefly  because 
he  felt  that  she  would  be  disappointed  if  he  ap- 
peared to  forget. 

So  it  had  grown  to  be  his  custom  to  send  vio- 
lets to  her  for  her  birthday,  though  what  was 
once  an  impulse  of  devotion  was  now  a  lie — the 
weakness  of  a  sentimentalist  reluctant  to  wound 
a  woman,  and  his  self-esteem,  by  admitting  that 
he  had  exaggerated  the  importance  of  his  feel- 
ings. And  each  December  the  woman  had  wel- 
comed the  lie  with  smiles  and  tears  and  believed 
that  he  loved  her  still. 

When  five  years  had  passed  he  met  her  again. 
It  was  in  Bond  Street,  and  he  had  sent  the  violets 
to  Paris  two  or  three  days  before. 

"Phil!" 

As  he  turned  and  saw  her,  he  thought  how 
much  better-looking  she  used  to  be.  She  was 
young  still,  no  more  than  thirty,  but  she  had 


DEAD  VIOLETS  241 

longed  for  him  on  every  day  of  the  five  years, 
and  her  tears  had  blotted  some  of  the  girhshness 
from  her  face.  As  he  tm-ned  and  saw  her,  the 
woman  thought  how  his  mouth  had  twitched 
when  he  said,  "I'd  come  to  you  from  the  end  of 
the  world."  It  is  among  the  unacknowledged 
truths  that  sentimentality  may  create  as  much 
ferment  as  enduring  love,  and  he  had  suffered 
even  more  violently  than  she,  though  he  had  not 
suffered  so  long. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  in  December? 
You're  the  last  person  I  should  have  expected 
to  see,"  she  said. 

"I  go  South  to-morrow." 

"Lucky  man!" 

"And  you?" 

"We're  living  here  now." 

"Really?    You've  left  Paris?    How  long?" 

"We've  been  here  since  October;  we're  flat- 
hunting." 

"Oh!" 

They  stood  looking  into  each  other's  eyes, 
neither  knowing  what  to  say  next.  Her  heart 
was  thumping  terribly,  and  she  felt  very  happy 
and  very  frightened.  ]\Iore  than  once  she  had 
been  tempted  to  write  to  him  that  her  courage 
had  broken  down;  all  resistance  seemed  to  have 
left  her  as  she  stood  looking  into  his  eyes  again. 


242    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Flats,"  she  added  in  a  voice  of  composure, 
"are  so  abominably  dear  in  London." 

"Where  are  you  staying?" 

"In  apartments — Bayswater." 

"Bayswater  must  be  a  change  from  Neuilly? 
It  was  a  jolly  little  place  you  had  in  Neuilly!" 

"It  was  ratlier  jolly,  wasn't  it?  My — my  hus- 
band's people  wished  us  to  come  over;  thej^ 
thought  they  might  put  him  into  something  over 
here.  Of  course,  in  Paris  it  was  cheap,  but  there 
were  no  prospects." 

"I  understand." 

"There's  some  talk  of  a  secretaryship  if  a 
company  is  floated."  It  was  so  natural  to  be 
telling  him  everything  now  they  had  met.  "It 
would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  us." 

"I  hope  it'll  come  off." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Well,  how  are  you?  I'm  always 
seeing  your  name — 'one  of  the  novels  of  the 
year' !" 

"They  aren't  so  good  as  the  novels  that  nobody 
read." 

"Not  quite.    Why?" 

"I'm  turning  out  what's  wanted  now.  One 
has  to  live." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Still,  isn't  it  a  pity  to— to " 

"Oh,  one  gets  tired!"  he  said.     "Ideals  make 


DEAD  VIOLETS  2^3 

lonely  dwelling-places.   .    .    .   Let  me  take  you 
somewhere  and  give  you  some  tea.'* 

"I  ought  to  go  to  some  shops;  I'm  up  West 
to  work." 

"  'Work'  ?     Spending  money  ?" 

"Earning  it — I'm  doing  fashion  articles." 

"You?  Do  you  mean  it?  Well,  come  and 
have  some  tea  first." 

It  was  very  early,  and  there  were  vacant  tables 
in  the  alcoves.  As  he  sat  opposite  her,  Orlebar 
thought  what  a  fraud  it  was  that  the  things  one 
craved  for  only  came  to  pass  when  one  had  grown 
resigned  to  doing  without  them.  How  he  had 
besought  God  for  some  such  chance  as  this — • 
what  a  spectacle  he  had  made  of  himself  about 
her  during  six  unforgettable  months !  And  now 
he  was  sipping  his  tea  without  emotion,  and  ob- 
serving that  her  clothes  compared  unfavourably 
with  the  other  women's  in  the  room!  In  that 
moment  Orlebar  saw  the  humiliating  truth — 
knew  that  he  had  lived  his  great  love  down  and 
deceived  himself  for  years.  But  he  didn't  want 
to  see — he  preferred  to  deceive  himself  now.  It 
is  often  more  congenial  to  be  an  ass  than  to  ack- 
nowledge that  you  have  been  one. 

"It's  a  long  time  since  we  had  tea  together, 
Lucy!" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 


244    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Well,  what  have  you  got  to  tell  me?" 

"I  think  I  told  you  everything  in  a  breath; 

at  least What  have  you  been  doing  all  the 

time?" 

"Trying  to  kill  it." 

"You're  working  in  London  now,  eh?" 

"Yes,  I've  chambers  in  the  Temple.  Rather 
swagger  compared  with  the  little  shanty  in  the 
rue  Ravignan.  How  did  you  come  to  take  up 
journalism?" 

"Someone  suggested  it — and  my  twaddle 
seemed  to  do.     It's  pretty  sickening." 

"What's  the  idea — it  doesn't  pay  very  well, 
does  it?" 

"Not  on  my  paper;  I  get  a  guinea  a  week,  but 
Oh,  why  should  I  bore  you  with  all  that?" 

"You  don't  'bore'  me,  Lucy." 

"Well,  I — I  prefer  to  do  it.  You  don't  know 
everything;  his  people  have  never  forgiven  his 
marriage — thej^  think  marriage  has  handicapped 
him  so  badly — and,  you  may  be  sure,  they  blame 
me  more  than  him;  it's  always  the  daughter-in- 
law's  fault!  We've  only  their  allowance  to  live 
on — it  isn't  pleasant  to  be  kept  by  people  who 
resent  your  existence." 

"Poor  little  woman!    'No,  I  didn't  know." 

"Oh,  it's  not  so  bad  as  all  that!  Still,  I'm 
glad  to  be  making  something,  even  if  it's  only  a 


DEAD  VIOLETS  245 

guinea  a  week.  I  don't  feel  so  uncomfortable 
when  I  meet  them,  not  such  a  dead  weight.  We 
have  to  go  there  to  dinner  on  Sundays,  and  it's 
rather  awful — they  tell  me  what  a  splendid  ca- 
reer he  would  have  had  if  he  hadn't  married." 

"Damn  'em!"  said  Orlebar. 

"I  do — every  Sunday  afternoon,  from  the 
soup  to  the  coffee.  Well" — she  leant  her  elbows 
on  the  table,  and  smiled — "have  I  changed 
much?" 

"Xo,"  he  said,  bravely.  "But — but  this  is 
brutal  hard  lines — I  didn't  dream  that  you  had 
things  hke  that  to  put  up  with!  You  always 
seemed  so  lighthearted  in  Paris." 

"I  didn't  meet  his  people  in  Paris.  Besides, 
things  alter  in  five  years;  I  think —  Oh!"  she 
broke  off,  "it's  ridiculous  to  talk  about  it  to  you, 
I  don't  know  why  I'm  doing  it!" 

"Have  you  anybody  else  to  talk  to?" 

"No,"  she  admitted,  slowly,  "that's  it.  I  can't 
talk  to  him  because — well,  they're  his  own  peo- 
ple, for  one  thing;  and,  besides — well,  of  course 
marriage  has  handicapped  him,  and  I  suppose 
he  knows  it  as  well  as  they  do." 

"Do  you  mean — ?  .  .  .  You  don't  get  on 
now?" 

She  gave  a  shrug,  and  traced  lines  on  the  cloth 
with  her  spoon.  "What  do  you  supx^ose  I  inean?" 


246    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  dear!" 

"Oh,  I  daresay  it's  my  fault.  I  suppose  I 
don't  do  all  I  ought  to  make  up  for  what  I've 
cost  him;  it's  difficult  to  do  all  you  ought  when 
— when — "  her  voice  snapped — "when  you 
sometimes  wish  to  God  that  you  hadn't  done  so 
much!" 

"Perhaps  you'd  have  done  better  to  come  to 
me,  after  all,"  said  Orlebar,  heavily;  he  couldn't 
think  of  anything  else  to  say. 

"I  tried  to  be  a  good  woman — I  thought  you'd 
forget  me ;  I  wanted  to  forget  you.  Why  didn't 
you  let  me  forget  you?  Why  did  you  send  me 
those  flowers  every  year?" 

"Were  you  vexed  with  me  for  sending  them?" 

"No." 

"I'm  glad.  I  sent  some  to  Paris  the  other 
day." 

"Did  you?  I  wondered  if  you  would;  I've  been 
rather  impatient  for  my  birthdays.  What  a  con- 
fession— a  woman  impatient  for  her  birthdays! 
I  never  meant  to  see  you  any  more,  though;  I 
swore  I  wouldn't." 

"But  you  wanted  to,  didn't  you?" 

Her  cup  was  neglected  now ;  she  leant  back  in 
the  chair,  her  hands  clenched  in  her  lap. 

"Didn't  you?"  he  repeated. 


DEAD  VIOLETS  247; 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  said  in  her  throat.  "I  can't 
bear  it,  Phil!" 

"What?" 

"The  hfe — everything!    I'm  tired  of  it  all." 

"Chuck  it!"  he  muttered;  "come  away  with 
me  to-morrow!" 

She  didn't  speak;  she  tried  to  believe  that  she 
was  struggling.  The  pause  seemed  to  Orlebar 
to  last  a  long  time  while  he  sat  wishing  that  he 
hadn't  said  it.  The  w^aitress  inquired  if  they  re- 
quired anything  else,  and  put  the  check  on  the 
table,  and  took  her  tip.  The  place  was  filling, 
and  a  ladies'  orchestra  began  to  twang  their 
mandolins. 

"Do  you  want  me?"  she  asked,  raising  her 
eyes. 

"Do  I  'want'  you!"  What  else  could  he  re- 
ply? 

"Very  well,  then."  She  nodded.  "I'll  go! 
.  .  .  Let's  get  out  of  this — do  you  mind? — my 
head  aches." 

He  knew  dismally  that  her  consent  had  come 
too  late,  that  there  would  be  nothing  now  to  com- 
pensate him  for  the  scandal — no  months,  or 
weeks,  or  even  minutes  of  rapture.  They  got 
up,  and  he  put  the  half-crown  on  the  desk,  and 
followed  her  into  the  street. 

After  they  had  strolled  a  few  yards  in  silence. 


248    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

he  said,  as  it  seemed  obligatory,  "You've  made 
me  very  happy." 

She  answered,  "I'll  tiy  to."  He  wished  that 
she  had  said  anything  else — it  was  painful. 

"We'd  better  have  a  cab.  Where  shall  we  go 
— will  you  come  to  the  Temple?" 

"I  think  I'd  like  to  go  home;  you  can  drive 
there  with  me," 

"Can  you  get  away  in  the  morning — or  shall 
I  put  it  off?"  he  asked  in  the  hansom. 

"No,  I  can  get  away — he  won't  be  back  till  the 
evening." 

"Back  from  where?" 

"He  went  down  to  his  people  to-day — they're 
at  Brighton  now.    What  time's  the  train?" 

"Ten  o'clock — from  Charing  Cross ;  I  was  go- 
ing by  Folkestone  and  Boulogne.  Are  you  a 
bad  sailor?" 

"No,  I  like  it.  We'll  meet  at  Charing  Cross, 
then?" 

"Yes;  in  the  first-class  waiting-room — if 
you're  sure  it's  not  too  early  for  you?" 

"It's  all  right.  .  .  .  Is  it  real,  Phil?  Half  an 
hour  ago  we  hadn't  seen  each  other;  and  now — 
it's  to  be  all  our  lives!  Oh,  I  hope  you'll  never 
be  sorry!    I  wonder?" 

"That's  unjust." 

"Is  it?"    Her  eyes  reminded  him  that  he  ought 


DEAD  VIOLETS  249 

to  kiss  her,  and  he  bent  his  head.  .  .  .  He  pitied 
her  acutely  as  he  felt  her  tears  on  his  face — 
hated  himself  for  lying  to  her. 

"Cheer  up,  dearest!  Remember  how  we  care 
for  each  other,"  he  said. 

The  effort  of  affecting  joy  wore  him  out  as 
they  drove  on.  Intensely  he  wished  that  they 
had  found  a  quicker  cab ;  he  wanted  a  drink  bad- 
ly, wanted  to  light  a  pipe  and  give  way  to  his 
gloom.  Her  hand,  which  he  clasped,  seemed  to 
him  to  grow  larger  and  heavier  through  the  long 
drive;  and  when  at  last  they  parted  at  her  door, 
he  thanked  heaven  for  the  right  to  heave  a  sigh, 
for  the  freedom  to  look  as  moody  as  he  felt. 

Five  years  ago.  If  it  had  only  happened  five 
— four  years  ago!  The  pathos  of  the  situation 
took  him  by  the  throat.  What  a  rotten  thing  life 
was!  Again  his  mind  reverted  to  the  months 
when  he  had  been  torn  with  longing  for  her — the 
longing  just  to  watch  her,  to  listen  to  her,  no 
matter  what  she  said.  And  now  he  had  kissed 
her  for  the  first  time — as  a  duty.  That  aban- 
donment of  despair  had  played  havoc  with  him, 
yet  he  wished  that  it  had  lasted — it  would  have 
been  worth  while,  he  thought.  God!  the  ecstasy 
that  would  have  been  thrilling  in  him  now  if  he 
had  suffered  like  that  until  this  afternoon! 


250    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

At  the  Club  he  ordered  a  "big  whisky  and  a 
small  soda." 

"You're  off  to  Rome  soon,  aren't  you?"  said  a 
man  presently.  "You  pampered  novelists  have 
all  the  luck!"' 

"Yes,"  said  Orlebar.  The  man  was  the  Editor 
of  a  daily  paper;  it  occurred  to  the  novelist  that 
he  was  about  to  provide  the  paper  with  some  sur- 
prising copy;  also,  that  the  editorial  greeting 
would  be  less  informal  when  they  met  again. 

What  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  talk  there  would  be ! 
the  damage  it  was  going  to  do  him  socially!  So- 
cially? It  would  injure  him  financially,  too;  he 
recognised  it  for  the  first  time  as  he  surveyed  the 
room.  There  was  McKinnell,  of  the  Mai/fcdr, 
ragging  a  waiter  because  the  toast  was  cold;  Or- 
lebar's  new  novel  was  to  run  through  the  May- 
fair  before  it  came  out  in  book  form.  If  he  knew 
anything  of  McKinnell,  that  highly  respectable 
gentleman  would  refuse  to  pollute  the  pages  of 
his  journal  with  the  fiction  of  a  co-respondent. 
And  McKinnell's  refusal  wouldn't  be  singular, 
though  he  might  express  it  with  singular  offen- 
siveness.  Even  among  good  fellows,  it  would  be, 
"Sorry,  but  we  daren't  run  you  just  now  in  a 
paper  for  household  reading — we  should  get  no 
end  of  protests.  Awful  rot,  of  course,  but  there 
it  is!"     Five  hundred  pounds  gone!     Five  hun- 


DEAD  VIOLETS  251 

dred  pounds  was  a  large  sum ;  he  was  no  million- 
aire. 

And  his  books?  The  sale  of  his  next  books 
would  drop  in  this  virtuous  country  when  he  had 
outraged  the  Eleventh  Commandment.  If  she 
had  been  "Lady"  somebody  the  public  would 
have  called  the  case  "romantic" — it  would  have 
been  a  big  advertisement  then — but  without  the 
glamour  of  a  title  they  would  only  call  it  "dis- 
graceful." For  one  reader  gained  by  the  scan- 
dal, half  a  dozen  would  be  lost.  What  a  calamity, 
his  turning  into  Bond  Street  this  afternoon! 

And  how  she  had  jumped  at  him,  he  thought 
with  sudden  resentment;  she  hadn't  needed  much 
persuasion!  Pie  had  been  an  idiot  to  exalt  her 
into  a  heroine  at  the  beginning — since  it  had  been 
fated  that  he  was  to  ruin  himself,  he  might  at 
any  rate  have  done  it  while  he  was  in  love  with 
her!  And  he  hadn't  even  the  excuse  of  youth 
now;  he  was  making  a  mess  of  his  life  when  he 
was  old  enough  to  know  better,  when  he  did  know 
better — he  was  ruining  himself  against  his  will! 
He  had  another  whisky-and-soda,  and  wondered 
if  there  was  any  chance  of  his  hearing  that  she 
had  changed  her  mind.  Confound  it,  she  didn't 
know  his  address!  And  anvhow  there  would  be 
no  chance;  what  was  she  giving  up — a  husband 
who  didn't  want  her.     If  she  had  had  a  child,  it 


252    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

would  have  been  a  different  thing.  A  pity  she 
hadn't  a  family!  A  husband  who  didn't  want 
her.  And  he,  Philip  Orlebar,  was  going  to  take 
her  off  his  hands.  Oh,  what  a  mug's  game!  If 
he  hadn't  gone  in  to  have  his  hat  ironed,  he 
wouldn't  have  met  her.  And  it  hadn't  really 
needed  ironing  either ! 

He  did  not  remain  long  in  the  Club  when  din- 
ner was  over.  After  all,  he  had  mentioned  that 
his  rooms  were  in  the  Temple,  and  the  hope  that 
she  might  try  to  communicate  with  him  lingered 
in  spite  of  common-sense.  At  the  gate  he  looked 
towards  the  porter  eagerly,  but  the  porter  said 
nothing,  and  the  shock  of  disappointment  told 
Orlebar  how  strong  the  hope  had  been. 

His  portmanteaux  were  half-packed,  and  he 
spent  the  evening  straining  to  catch  the  sound 
of  the  bell.  Once  it  rang,  but  the  visitor  was 
only  a  bore  who  had  dropped  in  for  a  drink  and 
a  chat.  Orlebar  loathed  the  beaming  face  as  he 
gave  him  welcome,  and,  like  the  Editor,  the  bore 
made  envious  reference  to  the  morrow's  j  ourney ; 
he  "wished  he  were  in  the  author's  shoes!"  Orle- 
bar was  at  infinite  pains  to  affect  high  spirits,  for 
it  was  undesirable  that  the  man  should  say  after- 
wards, "I  was  with  him  the  night  before  he  bolt- 
ed with  her — the  poor  beggar  seemed  to  have 
an  awful  hump."     But  presently  the  man  said. 


DEAD  VIOLETS  253 

■''You  seem  a  cup  low  to-night,  old  chap?"  The 
melancholy  stroke  of  the  Temple  clock  had  never 
sounded  so  lugubrious  as  in  the  hours  that  fol- 
lowed. 

When  he  woke  in  the  morning,  Orlebar  re- 
membered that  there  ought  to  be  a  half-bottle  of 
Pommery  in  the  bathroom,  and  he  had  it  in  lieu 
of  tea,  with  some  biscuits.  The  wine  lightened 
his  mood  a  little ;  it  no  longer  seemed  so  hopeless- 
ly impossible  to  conceal  his  regret;  and  when  he 
strode  into  the  station,  it  was  with  a  very  fair 
show  of  impatience.  But  his  heart  leapt  as  he 
saw  that  she  wasn't  there.  He  sat  down,  and 
glanced  alternately  at  the  clock  and  the  doors, 
praying  that  she  wouldn't  come. 

She  entered  just  as  he  was  feeling  sanguine. 

"My  darling,"  he  murmured,  "here  you  are!" 

"Am  I  late?" 

"I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid.  But  there's 
time  enough — I've  got  the  tickets.  Where's 
your  luggage?" 

"They've  taken  it  through." 

"We'd  better  go,  then." 

Among  the  bustle  on  the  platform  he  could 
say  little  more  than,  "Plow  pale  you  are!"  and 
"Which  are  your  trunks?"  Then  they  were  alone, 
and  the  door  had  been  slammed,  and  the  train 
moved  out. 


254    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Darling!"  he  said  again.     "WeU?" 
"Well?" 

"It  seems  too  good  to  be  true."    His  tone  was 
lifeless. 

"Does  it?" 

"Doesn't  it  to  you?" 

"I  think  it's  true,"  she  said,  with  a  tired  smile. 

"How  pale  you  are!"  he  repeated.  "Didn't 
you  sleep?" 

"Not  much.     I've  been  wondering." 

"'Wondering'?    What?" 

"Whether  I  ought  to  have  said  'no.'  What 
would  you  have  done  if  I'd  said  'no,'  Phil?  Real- 
ly?" 

"What  can  a  man  do?  I  suppose  I  should 
have  had  to  put  up  with  it." 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  She  was 
gazing  straight  before  her,  with  a  frown. 

"Do  you  think  me  a  bad  woman,  Phil?" 

"I  think  you're  the  best  woman  I've  ever 
known." 

"It  looks  like  it,  doesn't  it?" 

"The  force  of  circumstances!  If  you  had  met 
me  before  you  met  him " 

"But  I  didn't.  It's  pretty;  mean  of  me  to 
spoil  his  hfe,  isn't  it?" 

"I  didn't  know  that  he  cared  so  much  about 
you?" 


DEAD  VIOLETS  255 

"Oh" — she  hesitated — "we've  quarrelled,  like 
everybody  else,  but — but  he's  very  fond  of  me. 
Of  course,  it'll  be  an  awful  blow.  I  can't  forget 
it — I've  been  thinking  of  it  ever  since." 

"It  just  depends  .  .  .  the  thing  you've  got  to 
consider  is  which  way  you'll  be  happier  yourself. 
If — I  don't  know!  I  suppose  there  are  women 
who  cant  go  wrong  and  be  happy." 

"I'm  thinking  of  my  duty,"  she  faltered.  "You 
know  I  love  you,  don't  you  ?  I  want  you  to  know 
it,  to  keep  remembering  it  all  the  time.  I  love 
you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you!  But — "  She 
waited  with  her  heart  in  her  throat. 

"But  what?"  he  asked,  moodily.  "What  were 
you  going  to  say?" 

Her  eyes  closed  with  pain. 

"Eh?"  he  said. 

"There  are  his  people,"  she  stammered; 
"they'll  feel  the  disgrace  so  much.  I've  been 
considering  everything — I — I  didn't  know  what 
a  wrench  it  would  be." 

"You'll  get  over  it." 

"I'm  not  sure?  Perhaps  I  shall  always — ? 
Do  you  think  I've  .  .  .  made  a  mistake?"  Again 
she  waited  breathlessly.  If  he  would  only  seize 
her  in  his  arms !  If  he  would  only  cry,  "Let  them 
all  go  to  the  devil,  and  remember  me!" 

"If  you  feel  like  that,"  he  said  feebly,  "of 


256    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

course  I  hardly — I  hardly  know  what  I  can  say 
to  you." 

"You  can't  tJiinJi:  of  anything  to  say?"  she 
pleaded.  "There's  nothing — nothing  I'm  over- 
looking?" 

"There's  time;  one  gets  over  anything  in 
time,"  he  said,  incautiously. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  she  moaned. 

She  turned  to  the  window,  her  face  as  white 
as  a  dead  woman's.  The  terror  was  confirmed 
that  had  stolen  on  her  in  the  cab,  that  had  haunt- 
ed her  throughout  the  night — confirmed  by  his 
tones,  his  looks,  by  every  answer  he  had  made  to 
her  halting  falsehoods ;  he  had  learnt  to  do  with- 
out her,  she  had  given  herself  unsought !  In  the 
agony  of  shame  that  overwhelmed  her  she  could 
have  thrown  herself  from  the  compartment ;  and 
it  was  only  her  love  for  him  that  restrained  her 
— she  would  not  reproach  him  by  deed  or  word; 
he  shouldn't  be  burdened  by  the  knowledge  of 
what  he  had  made  her  suffer. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it's  not  too  late." 

"No,"  she  muttered;  "I  can't  go!" 

His  pulses  jumped;  for  an  instant  he  couldn't 
trust  his  voice. 

"You  must  do  as  you  like,  I  don't  want  to 
take  you  against  your  will.  ...  If  you  wish  it, 
you  can  go  back  from  Folkestone;  I  suppose — 


DEAD  VIOLETS  257 

if  he's  away — there'd  be  no  harm  done,  would 
there?" 

"You're  not  angry  with  me  ?  You  won't  mind 
too  much?" 

"Don't  worry  about  me — I  want  you  to  be 
happy.  To  tell  you.  the  truth,  I  think  you're 
right — you  are  not  the  woman  to  kick  over  the 
traces,  you'd  be  too  cut  up  about  it.  Go  back 
and  make  the  best  of  a  bad  business — it'll  be 
easier  for  you  to  bear  than  the  other,  anyhow  I 
We'll  see  about  a  train  for  you  as  soon  as  we  get 
m. 

At  Folkestone  Harbour  they  ascertained  that 
there  would  be  an  express  to  Charing  Cross  at 
two  o'clock,  and  he  paced  the  platform  with  her 
till  it  was  time  to  say  good-bye.  Exhilaration 
had  given  him  an  appetite,  but  she  answered 
that  she  wasn't  hungry;  so,  as  he  had  missed  his 
boat,  he  decided  to  drive  to  an  hotel  on  the  Leas 
and  have  an  elaborate  luncheon  when  she  had 
gone.  His  glances  at  the  playbills  on  the  walls 
showed  him  that  San  Toy  was  at  the  Pleasure 
Gardens,  and  he  foresaw  himself  cheerfully 
among  the  audience  in  the  evening.  He  was 
feeling  on  a  sudden  twenty  years  younger,  and, 
hard  as  he  strove  to  acquire  a  manner  of  tender 
gravity,  she  discerned  the  improvement  in  his 
spirits  every  time  he  spoke. 


258    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Her  train  arrived  in  town  at  a  few  minutes  to 
four,  and  she  re-entered  the  lodging-house  some 
hours  earlier  than  her  husband.  But  the  fire  had 
gone  out,  and  she  had  to  wait  shivering  till  it 
was  lighted  before  she  could  burn  the  note  that 
she  had  left  on  the  mantelpiece  for  him.  A  little 
box  addressed  to  her  had  been  delivered  during 
her  absence ;  when  the  slatternly  servant  left  her 
alone  at  last,  the  woman  dared  to  touch  it — and 
fell  to  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  burst.  It 
contained  the  violets  that  Orebar  had  sent  in 
token  of  his  love. 

The  box  had  been  redirected  from  Paris.  Ow- 
ing to  the  delay,  the  violets,  now  that  they 
reached  her,  were  quite  dead. 


THE  FAVOURITE  PLOT 

With  Variations 

The  financier  was  cracking  walnuts  when  the 
curate  arrived. 

"Hallo,  boy!"  he  said.  "Why  didn't  you  come 
to  dinner?'* 

"How  do  you  do,  Uncle  Murray?  Oh,  it  was 
impossible  to  come  in  time  for  dinner.  I  had  a 
Meeting  at  six  o'clock — and  it's  a  long  way  from 
Plaistow  to  Park  Lane.    Are  you  quite  well?" 

"Pretty  fit,"  said  Murray  Pybus.  "Glad  to 
see  you  again.  I  was  going  to  drop  you  a  line ;  I 
go  to  New  York  next  month.  Help  yourself  to 
port." 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  drink  wine,"  said  Cuth- 
bert,  a  shade  reproachfully. 

"I  forgot,"  said  Pybus.  "Cigar?  But  you 
don't  smoke  either!  Well,  take  an  armchair; 
make  yourself  comfortable.     How's  Plaistow?" 

The  curate  cleared  his  throat.  "I  was  anxious 
to  have  a  talk  with  you.  Uncle  Murray,  on  a  very 
important  subject." 

"So  you  wrote  me.  Well,  I  know  your  im- 
portant subjects;  you  needn't  go  into  details;  of 

2.59 


^60    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

course  it's  a  bona  fide  case.  How  much  do  you 
want?" 

"Frankly,  I  am  nervous,"  faltered  his  nephew. 

"Better  try  the  port,"  counselled  Pybus.  "No? 
All  right;  stick  to  your  colours,  even  if  they're 
a  blue  ribbon." 

"You  have  always  been  so  generous — ^more 
than  generous.  Your  subscriptions,  and — and 
your  proposals  as  regards  myself,  though  I 
couldn't  accept  them,  were " 

"Natural  enough!  You'll  have  to  have  the 
lot  one  day — I've  nobody  else  to  leave  it  to,  and 
I'm  not  the  man  to  marry  again."  He  laughed. 
"It'll  be  a  funny  position,  eh — an  East  End  cu- 
rate blooming  into  a  millionaire  ?  You're  a  queer 
fish,  Cuthbert!  I  don't  say  any  more  about  your 
not  coming  into  the  City — you  weren't  cut  out 
for  it — but  what  do  you  want  to  starve  in  the 
slums  for?  If  the  Church  was  the  only  thing  to 
suit  you,  you  might  as  well  have  had  a  snug 
berth  in  it." 

"I  thought — at  least  I  hoped — "  said  Cuthbert 
stiffly,  "that  I  had  made  my  principles  clear  to 
you  long  ago.  I  have  no  desire  for  a  'snug 
berth' ;  I  told  you  so  when  the  Call  came  to  me. 
My  object  in  taking  Orders  was  never  to  attain 
material  comforts;  if  I  had  sought  worldly  ad- 
vantages, I  should  have  embraced  a  commercial 


THE  FAVOURITE  PLOT  261 

career  instead.  I  choose  to  labour  among  those 
who  need  my  poor  help  the  most;  and  I  choose 
to  be  in  truth  their  brother — not  to  hold  myself 
aloof  from  them,  a  preceptor  in  a  pleasance." 

"Oh,  very  proper,  very  high-minded,"  said  the 
financier  hurriedly;  "a  reputation  for  conscien- 
tiousness, of  course,  is  a  valuable  asset.  Have  it 
your  own  way,  my  lad.  If  I'm  not  to  do  any- 
thing for  you  in  my  lifetime,  we'll  say  no  more 
about  it." 

The  curate  flushed. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  stammered,  "my 
reason  for  wishing  to  see  you  was  to  beg  you  to 
do  something  for  me.  My  principles  are  quite 
unchanged ;  I  still  mean  to  work  among  the  poor, 
I'm  still  resolved  to  abstain  from  living  among 
them  luxuriously,  but — well,  circumstances  have 
arisen  which — er —  Perhaps  I  had  better  tell 
you  everything,  as  it  happened." 

"Best  way,"  said  Pybus,  repressing  a  groan. 

"I  was  rather  seriously  unwell  some  weeks 
ago,  and  my  Vicar  induced  me  to  take  a  brief 
holiday.    He  is  always  most  considerate." 

"Any  family  at  the  vicarage?" 

"Family?    There  are  his  three  daughters." 

"Ah,"  murmured  the  millionaire.  "Yes,  he 
would  consider  you  attentively.     Go  on.'* 

"Some  pleasant  seaside  place  was  desirable. 


^62    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

and  I  went  to  Hastings.  The  Castle  is  most  fas- 
cinating." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  my  lodgings  were  not  cheerful,  and  the 
weather  was  unpropitious,  so  altogether " 

"You  got  the  hump?" 

"I  was — er — rather — yes.  One  evening,  as  it 
was  too  wet  to  take  a  walk,  I  attended  a  per- 
formance of  A  Crown  of  Thorns.  Of  course,  I 
had  heard  about  it — I  knew  .that  it  had  been  ap- 
proved by  organs  of  the  Press  that  don't  mention 
such  things  as  a  rule — but  I  confess  that  it 
amazed  me.  I  found  its  religious  teaching  quite 
as  admirable  as  the  historical  instruction  it  af- 
forded— the  insight  into  the  life  of  ancient  Kome. 
It  was  practically  my  first  visit  to  a  theatre,  and 
a  most  memorable  experience.  Perhaps  you 
know  the  play?" 

"Girl  holds  up  a  cross  in  the  limelight  and  the 
lions  are  afraid  to  eat  her?" 

"No,  sir,  there  are  no  lions.  There  are  lions  in 
the  pictorial  advertisements  of  the  play,  but  they 
are  not  actually  visible  on  the  stage.  It  isn't  too 
much  to  say  that  I  was  'overwhelmed.'  I  was 
ashamed  of  the  unreasoning  prejudice  I  had  al- 
ways entertained  against  theatrical  perform- 
ances." 


THE  FAVOURITE  PLOT  263 

"You  haven't  come  to  ask  me  to  endow  a  the- 
atre, I  hope?"  put  in  the  milHonaire  genially. 

"Oh,  indeed,  not  at  all,  sir — the  idea  had  not 
presented  itself  to  me.  Hear  me  out !  The  part 
of  the  heroine  was  taken  by  a  lady  who  possessed 
such  spiritual  fervour  that,  at  first,  I  regretted 
her  choice  of  a  career.  How  true  it  is  that  preju- 
dice dies  hard !  I  grieved — it  was  narrow  of  me ! 
— that  she  was  not  devotipg  herself  to  the  propa- 
gation of  faith  among  the  heathen  of  our  own 
time,  instead  of  to  the  mimic — er — I  mean 
that  it  seemed  to  me  she  was  wasting  her  precious 
gifts,  that  she  ought  to  have  been  a  missionary." 

"I  quite  follow  you,"  said  Pybus  drily. 

"I  did  not  recognize  the  truth  at  once ;  but  then 
it  came  to  me — I  understood !  As  I  looked  round 
at  the  eyes  wet  with  tears,  I  saw  that  the  stage 
may  make,  for  good  as  powerfully  as  the  pulpit ; 
I  saw  that  this  beautiful  girl,  uttering  the  grace 
that  was  in  her  to  hundreds  nightly — I  don't 
know  if  I  mentioned  that  she  has  been  favoured 
with  remarkable  beauty — was  stirring  the  minds 
of  mere  pleasure-seekers  to  the  contemplation  of 
higher  things ;  I  saw  that  she  was  working  in  the 
same  Cause  as  myself." 

"Great  Scott,  boy,  you've  fallen  in  love  with 
an  actress!"  exclaimed  Pybus.    "So  that's  it?" 

"Later,  I  certainly  learnt  to  love  her,"  replied 


264    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

the  curate  with  dignity,  "though  I  don't  perceive 
by  what  process  you  have  arrived  at  the  fact.  I 
had  the  happiness  to  meet  her  the  next  afternoon 
— in  the  waiting-room  at  a  dentist's — and  the 
passing  of  a  magazine  led  to  conversation." 

"Did  you  tell  her  that  you  thought  she  ought 
to  have  been  a  missionary?" 

"I  believe  I  did  say  something  of  my  earlier 
regret ;  and  she  agreed  with  me  that  she  was  do- 
ing equally  exalted  work  on  the  stage.  Perhaps 
my  enlightemnent  may  be  partly  due  to  that  con- 
versation; her  thoughts  on  the  subject  were  very 
beautiful.  One  answer  that  she  made  impressed 
me  deeply:  'Religion  and  Art,'  she  said,  'are  in 
reality  the  same  thing.'  .  .  .  Without  the  context 
it  is  not  so  forcible,  but  when  she  said  it,  it  was  a 
perfect  expression  of  what  we  meant,  it  was  most 
illuminative !" 

"How  much  have  you  been  muddling  yourself 
up  with  this  girl?"  asked  the  financier  curtly. 

"Sir?" 

"I  say,  how  far  has  it  gone?  What  happened 
after  she  illuminated  the  dentist's?" 

"We  met  often  after  the  dentist's — on  the  Pa- 
rade. We  used  to  listen  to  the  town  crier  to- 
gether; she  found  a  town  crier  so  quaint;  any- 
thing that  savours  of  a  bygone  age  appeals  to 
her  strongly.     Fortunately,   too,  the  company 


THE  FAVOURITE  PLOT  265 

was  going  to  London — to  various  theatres  in  the 
suburbs — so  I  was  able  to  see  her  when  I  re- 
turned; and — and  she  has  consented  to  be  my 
wife." 

"You  told  her  you  were  my  nephew,  eh — ^my 
heir?" 

"I  saw  no  reason  for  reticence.  I  trust  you 
have  not  formed  a  poor  opinion  of  a  lady  whom 
you  have  never  seen?" 

"Not  at  all;  I  should  have  a  poor  opinion  of 
her  if  she'd  refused  you  under  the  circumstances. 
But  you're  making  yourself  ridiculous.  You've 
lost  your  head  over  an  actress;  you've  taken  a 
queer,  clerical  way  about  it,  but  you've  lost  your 
head  over  an  actress.  It  won't  do,  Cuthbert,  the 
thing's  absurd." 

Cuthbert  had  turned  very  pale. 

"I'm  sorry  to  find  you  so  unjust,"  he  groaned. 
"I  had  hoped,  in  view  of  the  many  offers  you 
have  so  kind! 3^  made  me,  that  you'd  be  willing  to 
— to  further  my  happiness.  Marriage  upon  my 
stipend  is  impossible,  as  you  know.  I  trusted  to 
your  affection  to — to —  Why,  you've  pressed 
me  to  take  an  allowance  over  and  over  again  1" 

"Look  here,  boy,"  exclaimed  Pybus,  "I'm  go- 
ing to  talk  straight  to  you!  You're  the  nearest 
relative  I've  got,  and  though  you  were  never  the 
sort  I  was  keen  on  leaving  a  million  to,  I  knew 


266    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

you'd  waste  it  in  a  creditable  and  conscientious 
kind  of  way.  Also  I'm  only  fifty,  and  I  hoped 
you'd  have  got  more  sense  by  the  time  I  died. 
But  this  alters  matters.  I  shouldn't  leave  my 
money  to  you  if  you  made  a  ridiculous  marriage, 
and  I  don't  part  with  a  quid  to  help  you  to  do  it. 
That's  plain  English.  You  can  tell  her  what  I've 
said  when  you  keep  the  appointment  at  the 
stage-door  to-night!  She  can  marry  you  if  she 
likes,  but  she'll  live  in  Plaistow  on  what  you've 
got  now — there'll  be  nothing  from  me." 

"And  you,"  observed  Cuthbert  bitterly,  "are 
called  'a  man  of  the  world'!  Why,  sir,  you  are 
displaying  all  the  narrowness  of  the  least  sophis- 
ticated. She  is  an  actress — and  so  to  wed  her 
must  be  misfortune!    She  is  an  actress " 

"And  you're  a  fool,"  said  Pybus.  "But  I 
don't  want  to  quarrel  with  you — I've  been  there 
myself — thirty  years  ago — we've  all  been  there 
some  time.  You  go  to  a  theatre,  you  see  a  pretty 
woman,  and  you  think  you're  in  love.  You're  a 
curate,  so  your  symptoms  are  a  bit  complicated, 
but  the  complaint's  very  usual,  Cuthbert,  believe 
me — it  won't  be  fatal." 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  introduce  her  to  you?" 
pleaded  Cuthbert.  "Will  you  give  me  a  chance 
to  overcome  your  prejudices?" 

"No,  I  won't;  I  haven't  any  prejudices.      I 


THE  FAVOURITE  PLOT  267 

daresay  the  girl's  right  enough — for  the  right 
man;  but  she's  a  long  way  from  right  for  you. 
You  don't  really  suppose  she  can  care  about  you. 
You're  a  good  lad,  but  the  last  fellow  in  the 
world  to  please  an  actress.  If  you  hadn't  told 
her  you  were  my  nephew,  she'd  have  laughed  in 
your  face  when  you  proposed  to  her." 

"I  am  prepared,"  said  the  curate  resignedly, 
"to  suffer  humiliation  if  need  be." 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings. 
But — er — well,  she  would!  I  know  what  act- 
resses are  like." 

"But  you  don't  know  her.  If  you  would  talk 
to  her  once,  she  would  convert  you;  you  would 
own  you  were  wrong.  My  life's  happiness  is  at 
stake.  Before  you  decide,  let  me  bring  her  to 
see  you.     Surely  it  is  no  more  than  fair?" 

Pybus  picked  up  the  evening  papers.  "It's  no 
good  going  on  with  it;  that's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

He  opened  the  Pall  Mall. 

"Good-night,  sir,"  quavered  the  curate,  ex- 
tending a  hopeless  hand. 

"Good-night,  boy,"  said  the  financier  cordially. 
"Whenever  you  want  anything  in  reason  let  me 
know." 

Cuthbert  took  a  bus  to  Victoria,  and  arrived 
at  the  Shakespeare,  Clapham,  in  ample  time.  It 
was  still  embarrassing  to  him  to  loiter  at  a  stage- 


268    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

door;  but  a  man  is  justified  in  meeting  his  fiancee 
anywhere.  He  endeavoured  to  assert  this  by  his 
bearing  when  loafers  stared  at  him.  Nobody  was 
ever  quite  so  high-nanded  as  Cuthbert  tried  to 
look  when  he  waited  at  stage-doors. 

"My  own,  I  have  failed,"  he  told  her,  as  they 
walked  to  Clapham  Junction. 

The  hand  on  his  arm  trembled.  "What  did  he 
say?" 

"He  was  obdurate;  he  refused  point  blank. 
Why  should  I  pain  you  by  repeating  the  insults 
I  had  to  bear?" 

"Just  because  I  am  an  actress!"  exclaimed  the 
girl  pathetically.  "Oh,  what  we  have  to  put  up 
with,  we  artists;  how  uncharitable  they  are  to 
us!  .  .  .  Then  it's  all  over  between  you  and  I?" 

He  winced.  But  tears  were  swimming  in  her 
lovely  eyes ;  it  would  have  been  heartless  to  men- 
tion grammar. 

"I  cannot  lose  you,"  he  cried,  "I  cannot!  We 
might — no,  it's  out  of  the  question.  What's  to 
be  done?    Angela,  I  almost  lose  faith!" 

"Hush,"  she  murmured,  looking  upward;  "it 
may  be  all  for  the  best,  dear — it  must  be — though 
it  is  hard  for  us  to  understand  it.  .  .  .  Do  you 
think  he  would  relent  when  we  were  married?" 

"I  fear  not — he  would  never  know  you.  If 
he'd  let  me  take  you  to  him,  we  should  succeed. 


THE  FAVOURITE  PLOT  269 

I'm  sure — your  intelligence  and  beauty  would 
win  him  over,  though  he  wouldn't  appreciate  your 
soul;  but  he  declined  to  see  you." 

"It's  a  pity  I  can't  be  introduced  to  him  as 
somebody  else — go  there  as  a  hospital  nurse  or 
something.  Then  when  I'd  got  round  him,  and 
he  was  very  grateful  to  me,  I  could  say,  'my  name 
is  Angela  Noble — I  love  your  nephew!'  " 

"It  is  a  sweet  idea.  But  his  health  is  robust, 
and,  besides,  he  goes  abroad  very  soon." 

"That's  what  I  shall  have  to  do,"  she  said 
moodily. 

"You?" 

"If  we  don't  marry,  I  must  take  the  engage- 
ment for  New  York;  you  know  I  have  the  offer 
open — I  shall  have  to  go." 

"New  York?"  cried  Cuthbert.  "I  hoped  you 
had  dismissed  the  notion."  He  was  meditative. 
"Angela,  I  have  a  daring  thought!  I  will  not 
fail." 

Pybus  was  considerably  surprised  a  day  or  two 
later  at  receiving  a  pleasant  letter  from  the  young 
man  wishing  him  an  agreeable  voyage  and  in- 
quiring by  what  boat  he  was  to  cross;  he  was 
considerably  irritated  at  receiving  a  second  letter 
reminding  him  of  his  permission  to  ask  reasonable 
favours.  A  lady  of  the  curate's  acquaintance 
was   "departing  for  America,   unprotected,   by 


270    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

that  very  vessel."  An  act  of  courtesy  that  Mr. 
Pybus  would  kindly  show  to  the  friendless  lady, 
his  affectionate  nex^hew  would  much  appreciate. 
It  was  added  tactfully  that,  her  means  preclud- 
ing speculation,  no  fear  need  be  entertained  of 
her  angling  for  tips. 

Pybus  swore,  and  dictated  a  gracious  note. 

And  the  boat  sailed. 

Miss  Noble  unpacked  her  cabin  trunk  with  the 
painful  consciousness  that  steamers  travelled  fast. 
When  she  had  made  the  chance  remark  that  in- 
spired her  lover,  she  had  been  thinking  vaguely 
of  a  sick-room  and  plenty  of  time  for  womanly 
gentleness  to  be  admired.  "Between  Acts  II. 
and  III.  a  month  elapses."  An  Atlantic  racer 
was  alarmingly  different. 

And  the  uncle  was  more  discouraging  still. 
Every  uncle  that  she  had  ever  known  refusing 
his  consent  had  a  white  moustache  and  side 
whiskers,  and  was  slightly  bowed  with  age  and 
cynicism.  Here  was  a  hale  and  hearty  uncle, 
carelessly  good-humoured.  Such  a  person 
seemed  less  likely  to  break  up  into  slushy  senti- 
ment than  the  iciest  cynic  that  ever  sneered.  The 
report  that  reached  Plaistow  from  Queenstown 
was  not  a  sanguine  one.  "There's  just  this  in 
our  favour,"  she  had  scribbled:  "he  has  no  sus- 
picion who  I  am,  and  he  can't  escape  me  without 


THE  FAVOURITE  PLOT  271 

jumping  overboard.  You  may  bet" — "bet"  had 
been  imperfectly  erased — "feel  sure  I  shall  do  as 

much  in  the  time  as  I  can.    Dear  one "  Cuth- 

bert  kissed  the  ship's  stationery  with  enthusiasm. 

She  was  a  bright  girl — she  hasn't  been  seen  to 
advantage  with  the  curate — and  she  was  working 
for  by  far  the  most  profitable  engagement  of  her 
career ;  before  the  first  sweepstake  on  the  run  she 
began  to  play  her  part  in  quite  another  manner 
than  the  one  she  had  mentally  rehearsed.  The 
spiritual  note  that  Cuthbert  had  expected  of  her 
— to  go  on  being  the  heroine  of  A  Crown  of 
Thorns  after  the  curtain  was  down — wouldn't 
catch  on  here  at  all,  she  decided ;  there  was  no  hit 
to  be  made  on  those  lines.  Admiration,  a  wide- 
eyed  homage  of  the  financier's  cleverness  ?  Prob- 
ably all  the  women  he  met  looked  at  him  like 
that — it  had  been  played  out  long  ago.  The 
smartest  thing  would  be  to  treat  the  middle-aged 
magnate  as  if  he  were  an  amusing  young  man! 

She  did  it.  It  was  much  easier  than  being 
soulful,  much  less  fatiguing.  She  laughed,  she 
chaffed,  she  even  flirted  with  him  a  little.  Pybus, 
who  had  been  prepared  to  find  her  a  consummate 
nuisance,  hadn't  been  on  such  good  terms  with 
himself  for  years. 

The  day  before  they  sighted  Sandy  Hook  he 
said,  "I  hope  I  shall  see  something  of  you  after 


272    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

we  land?    Are  you  staying  in  New  York  long?" 

"I — I  hardly  know,"  she  answered.  "It  de- 
pends." It  depended  on  the  way  he  took  it  when 
she  sprung  the  truth  on  him  directly ;  she  felt  less 
self-possessed  than  usual. 

"Anyhow,  there's  my  address.  If  there's  any- 
thing I  can  do  I  shall  be  glad." 

"That's  very  kind  of  you.  I  wonder  how  much 
you  mean  it?"  She  flashed  a  glance.  "I  might 
ask  for  something  big." 

"Ah,  I  didn't  pledge  myself  to  do  anything 
you  asked;  I  said  I'd  be  glad  to  do  anything  I 
could." 

"Cautious  person!"  They  were  pacing  the 
deck,  and  they  walked  in  silence  for  a  minute. 
She  was  wondering  if  it  would  be  discreet  to  de- 
lay her  confession  till  they  had  arrived. 

"You're  nervy  to-day,"  said  Pybus.  "You 
look  as  if  you  were  going  to  say  you  had  a  head- 
ache. It's  just  the  moment  for  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne and  a  cracker.  Let's  go  below  and  get 
them." 

"I  don't  think  I  care  about  it,  thanks;  but 
you're  quite  right — I'm  nervy.  I  want  to  tell 
you  something.    ShaU  we  sit  down?" 

They  sat  down,  and  again  there  was  silence. 

"Well?"  he  questioned. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  begin." 


THE  FAVOURITE  PLOT  27^ 

"Let  me  help  you,"  suggested  Pybus.  "Pull 
me  up  if  I'm  wrong.  You  are  an  actress;  my 
nephew  Cuthbert  thinks  he  is  in  love  with  you; 
and  you  came  aboard  in  the  hope  of  persuading 
me  to  agree  to  your  marriage.  Whether  you 
were  going  to  New  York,  anyhow,  I  don't  know; 
I  trust  you  w^ere,  for  I  should  be  sorry  to  have 
put  you  to  so  much  inconvenience.  Now  the  be- 
ginning is  over — proceed!" 

Miss  Noble  had  uttered  a  faint  exclamation  of 
astonishment ;  she  stared  blankly  at  the  sea. 

"You  seem  surprised,"  he  said.  "That  isn't 
flattering  to  my  intelligence.  Cuthbert's  circle  of 
pretty  w^omen  is  strictly  limited,  I  take  it — any 
doubt  that  I  had  of  your  identity  when  I  got  his 
letter  was  removed  the  moment  I  saw  you." 

"Oh,  then  you  do  think  I'm  pretty?"  faltered 
Miss  Noble. 

"You  are  not  a  beauty,  but  your  face  is  pleas- 
ing. I  say  you  threw  yourself  in  my  way  with 
the  intention  of  convincing  me  that  you  were  a 
much  nicer  girl  than  I  supposed  you  to  be.  Am 
I  correct?" 

"Quite  correct,"  said  Miss  Noble  in  a  low  voice. 
"It  was  an  innocent  plot." 

"It  is  the  favourite  one — it  has  been  in  the 
English  magazines  every  month  since  I  was  a 
child.    Well,  I  am  convinced.    Don't  misunder- 


274j    the  man  who  understood  WOMEN 

stand  me.  I  find  you  brainier,  wittier,  and  nicer 
in  every  respect;  in  fact,  you  are  even  more  cal- 
culated than  I  assumed  to  spoil  his  life." 

"Mr.  Pybus!" 

"Keep  your  temper — it's  a  reflection  on  him, 
not  on  you.  I'll  explain.  Cuthbert  is  my  heir 
faute  de  mieux — which  may  be  translated  as 
'Because  I  haven't  a  son,  much  as  I  should  like 
one' — and  though  I've  never  pretended  he  was 
the  apple  of  my  eye,  I  should  regret  to  see  him 
come  to  grief.  If  you  were  the  flabby,  phono- 
graphic sort  of  young  woman  to  echo  his  senti- 
ments and  make  him  happy,  I'd  say,  'Take  him 
with  my  sympathy — he's  yours !'  You're  a  hun- 
dred per  cent,  too  charming  for  the  marriage  to 
be  a  success.  You  have  come  down  to  his  stand- 
ard very  effectually  so  far,  I  admit — it  must  have 
given  you  a  lot  of  trouble — but  you  couldn't  hope 
to  impose  on  him  always;  before  he  had  discov- 
ered half  your  attractions  they'd  break  his  heart." 

"I — I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you.  Then 
— then  you  refuse?" 

"It's  a  novelty  to  see  you  at  a  loss.  Yes,  I 
refuse  unhesitatingly.  Among  the  few  certain- 
ties of  life  we  may  count  the  fact  that  you'll 
never  marry  Cuthbert  with  any  help  from  me." 

"For  the  reason  that  you've  given  me?" 

"Among  others.    If  I  may  say  so,  for  the  fur- 


THE  FAVOURITE  PLOT  275 

ther  reason  that  I  don't  wish  you  to  be  unhappy, 
either.  You  find  him  a  pill,  naturally,  and  you'd 
have  been  bored  to  death." 

"You  are  despising  me,"  she  exclaimed;  "you 
think  I'm  a  mercenary  creature  without  a  heart, 
who " 

"Don't  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  Cuthbert.  I 
don't  despise  you  in  the  least.  You  are  in  a  very 
precarious  and  overcrowded  calling,  and  you'd 
have  married  him  for  position — as  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  fashionable  and  wealthy  girls  would 
be  wilhng  to  marry  him,  if  I  smiled  approval — 
but  I  know  you'd  have  found  him  dear  at  the 
price.  And  I  have  a  third  reason,  though  I  can 
assert  quite  truthfully  that  the  first  alone  would 
prevent  my  consenting.  I'd  like  to  marry  you 
myself." 

"You?"  she  gasped. 

"Why  not?  Of  course  you're  not  in  love  with 
me,  but  you  like  me  much  better  than  you  like 
him,  you  can't  dispute  it.  Professionally  you  are 
nineteen,  I  suppose ;  that's  to  say  you  are  really 
about  twenty-eight;  so  I'm  two-and-twenty  years 
older  than  you  are.  It's  a  lump,  but  I'm  lively 
for  my  age  and  if  you  go  on  flirting  with  me 
you'll  make  me  feel  considerably  younger.  It'll 
be  rough  on  Cuthbert  I  own — my  marrying  you 
will  cost  him  about  a  million.    Still,  he  won't  have 


276    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

you  in  any  case;  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year 
would  be  a  great  deal  more  appropriate.  Be- 
sides, it's  entirely  his  own  fault;  he  should  have 
taken  'no'  for  an  answer  when  he  came  to  see  me, 
and  then  I  should  never  have  met  you.  Think  it 
over.  If  you  regard  me  as  a  fairly  young  man, 
you  needn't  hesitate ;  and  if  you  don't,  remember 
that  there's  no  fool  like  an  old  one — that  you'll 
have  a  very  good  time." 

"You  couldn't  respect  me?"  murmured  Miss 
Noble.  "You'd  feel  that  I  was  only  marrying 
the  money — that  the  man  didn't  matter?" 

"I  am  not  without  some  natural  vanity,  I  as- 
sure you.  Come,  which  do  you  feel  more  at  home 
with,  him  or  me?" 

"You,"  admitted  Miss  Noble  softly. 

"That  settles  it!"  said  Pybus.  "We'll  get  Tif- 
fany's to  send  round  some  engagement  rings  in 
the  morning." 


TIME,  THE  HUINIORIST 

Herbert  Harding  was  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished dramatic  critics  in  London,  one  of  the 
most  scholarly  and  acute.  Yet  no  man  is  a 
prophet  to  his  family,  and  at  home  "H.H."  was 
considered  to  be  "wasting  his  life  at  the  game." 

Of  course,  the  old  people  took  the  paper  in 
which  his  first-night  notices  appeared,  and  they 
wrestled  with  his  essays  in  volume  form — essays, 
by  the  way,  which  will  always  be  ranked  among 
the  most  valuable  contributions  to  the  j)sychol- 
ogy  of  the  theatre;  but  the  references  to  Diderot, 
and  Stendhal,  and  other  persons  of  whom  they 
had  never  heard  before  baffled  them  mightily, 
and  if  the  book  had  been  written  by  anybody 
but  Herbert,  they  would  never  have  read  a  dozen 
pages  of  it.  As  Harding  senior,  a  sensible  and 
hearty  Englishman,  used  to  say  to  his  wife, 
"Thank  God,  he  wasn't  literary  himself,  and  to 
discuss  whether  the  heroine  of  a  play  would  have 
behaved  like  this,  or  have  behaved  like  that,  when 
one  knew  that  she  wasn't  a  real  woman  at  all, 
seemed  to  him  the  sort  of  tomfoolishness  for 
young  girls  in  a  drawing-room,  and  not  the  kind 

277 


278    THE  ]\IAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

of  thing  he  would  have  expected  a  son  of  his  to 
do  for  a  living,  damn  it!" 

There  were  persons  who  professed  to  see  in  the 
fact  that  Harding  had  always  been  unappre- 
ciated by  his  relatives,  the  explanation  of  his  mar- 
riage. But  there  were  many  cultured  women 
who  admired  him ;  Gertrude  Millington's  homage 
was  not  singular.  She  was,  certainly,  amiable, 
and  she  "wrote";  yet  when  one  remembers  the 
triviahty  of  her  stories,  one  would  have  supposed 
her  authorship  would  deter,  rather  than  attract, 
a  man  like  Harding.  Besides,  he  had  privately 
resented  the  necessity  for  making  her  acquaint- 
ance. 

She  was  a  friend  of  one  of  his  sisters — ^he  had 
met  her  when  he  went  down  to  his  people  for  a 
fortnight  in  the  autumn;  and  his  mother  had 
said: 

"Oh,  my  son  Herbert — ISIiss  Millington.  You 
have  often  heard  us  talk  of  Miss  Millington, 
Herbert?  You  two  should  find  lots  to  say  to 
each  other,  both  being  writers." 

Harding,  who  had  never  heard  Miss  Milling- 
ton's  name  till  then,  there  or  anywhere  else, 
thought  that  his  mother  ought  to  have  known 
better. 

Perhaps  the  girl  thought  so,  too,  for  her  smile 
was  embarrassed. 


TIME,  THE  HUMORIST  279 

"I  never  expected  to  get  the  chance  to  meet 
Mr.  Harding,"  she  said  reverentially. 

Harding  thawed.  Since  she  recognised  him  as 
a  master,  he  was  prepared  to  tolerate  her.  In 
five  minutes  he  had  gathered  that  to  be  talking 
to  him  was  one  of  the  events  of  her  life. 

Naturally  they  talked  of  the  theatre,  and 
though  her  attitude  towards  the  drama  was  un- 
trained, Harding  perceived  an  eagerness  to  be 
enhghtened,  a  quickness  of  intelligence  that 
saved  him  from  being  bored.  That,  at  any  rate, 
was  how  he  put  it  to  himself,  though  whether  her 
eagerness  and  intelhgence  would  have  interested 
him  if  she  had  not  been  passably  good-looking 
is  a  doubtful  point. 

The  fortnight  proved  uncommonly  pleasant  to 
him,  and  as  he  did  not  have  an  opportunity  for 
looking  at  any  of  her  work  until  they  were  back 
in  town  and  he  was  well  in  love  with  her,  the 
crudity  of  her  fiction  did  not  infuriate  him  so 
violently  as  it  would  have  done  otherwise.  On 
the  contrary,  he  persuaded  himself  that,  under- 
lying the  immaturities  of  style  and  characterisa- 
tion, there  was  the  glint  of  genuine  talent. 

His  income,  derived  solely  from  his  pen,  was 
slender;  but  everything  is  relative,  and  Miss 
Millington  lived  in  a  boarding-house  at  West 
Kensington.     Compared  with  her  own,  his  means 


280    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

were  substantial.  To  cut  the  courtship  short,  he 
married  her.  Miss  Milhngton,  the  unknown,  be- 
came the  wife  of  Harding,  the  august.  Women 
who  had  made  a  reputation  called  on  them,  and 
* 'wondered  what  he  could  have  seen  in  her,  they 
were  sure!"  His  best  friends  confessed  them- 
selves "a  bit  surprised  at  his  choice";  and  Hard- 
ing, with  all  the  ardour  of  his  intellect  and  his 
affection,  proceeded  to  cultivate  his  wife's  mind. 

Never  was  a  disciple  more  devoted.  She  put 
her  story-writing  aside — he  had  advised  her  to  do 
that  until  she  was  more  widely  read — and  plodded 
conscientiously  through  the  list  of  classics  that 
he  drew  up  for  her  improvement.  As  often  as  he 
obtained  two  seats,  she  went  to  the  theatre  with 
him,  and  listened  absorbed  to  his  catalogue  of  the 
play's  defects.  Because  she  loved  him  dearly  and 
panted  to  please,  she  never  failed  to  assure  him 
that  she  understood,  and  thoroughly  agreed  with 
everything  he  said — though  this  was  a  flagrant 
lie — and  Harding  promoted  her  to  Ibsen,  and  ex- 
pounded his  qualities  to  her  for  hours  on  end. 

She  grew  to  miss  her  scribbling  by  degrees. 
By  degrees  she  grew  to  sicken  at  the  intellectual 
stuffing.  Before  long,  her  delight  at  going  to  a 
theatre  was  marred  by  her  dread  of  the  critic's 
edifying  monologue  when  they  returned.  But  she 
never  yawned,  she  never  faltered — she  endured 


TIME,  THE  HUMORIST  281 

the  deadly  dulness  of  her  education  without  a 
murmur. 

Her  confinement  was  a  hoHday.  Harding, 
however,  was  far  too  fond  of  his  wife  to  neglect 
her  because  he  had  a  son,  and  after  she  was  up 
again,  he  devoted  as  much  earnest  attention  to 
her  as  before.  By  this  time  she  could  give  forth 
dozens  of  his  opinions  with  all  the  fidelity  of  a 
phonograph,  and  he  contemplated  her  progress 
with  the  tenderest  pride. 

The  baby,  and  a  nurse,  and  the  necessary 
change  in  the  domestic  arrangements  meant 
increased  expenses,  and  now  she  sometimes  re- 
flected that  the  modest  cheques  obtainable  by  her 
pen  would  be  an  aid. 

Once  she  said  to  him: 

"Herbert,  when  do  you  think  I  might  go  back 
to  my  work?  Don't  you  think  I  might  write 
something  again  now?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  write?"  he  asked,  with 
an  indulgent  smile. 

"I  suppose  what  I  ought  to  do  is  another  book; 
I  should  like  to  write  a  play,  though." 

"A  play?"  He  stared.  "My  child,  you  aren't 
a  dramatist." 

"Well,  I  never  shall  be  one  if  I  don't  make  a 
beginning.  I  should  think  I  ought  to  be  able  to 
manage  a  piece,  after  all  I've  read." 


282    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Harding  smiled  again,  wryly.  The  temerity 
of  the  novice  was  a  wonderful  thing. 

"You  know  more  than  you  did,  but  dramatic 
construction  isn't  to  be  mastered  in  a  year  and  a 
half,  goose,  even  by  the  born  playwright." 

"It's  never  to  be  mastered  at  all  without  trying, 
is  it?" 

There  was  a  touch  of  obstinacy  in  her  tone, 
and  he  was  greatly  disappointed.  Since  she 
could  speak  in  so  light  a  fashion  of  accomplishing 
a  play,  it  seemed  that  she  had  learnt  nothing  after 
all.  The  magnitude  of  the  undertaking  did  not 
impress  her  in  the  least — she  talked  like  the 
proverbial  amateur. 

"Doesn't  it  occur  to  you,"  he  said  patiently, 
"that,  although  I  know  considerably  more  about 
it  than  you  do,  I  don't  write  plays?  I  recognise 
what  I  lack.  And  I  recognise  what  i/ou  lack. 
I'm  not  trying  to  make  a  dramatist  of  you,  my 
child — I  simply  want  you  to  have  an  acquaint- 
ance with  what  is  best  in  dramatic  literature;  I 
want  you  to  be  able  to  discriminate.  As  to  your 
writing  again,  perhaps  you  will.  But  not  yet. 
Not  yet,  by  any  means!  And  when  you  do,  of 
course  it  should  be  a  story.  Really  whether  you 
wi'ite,  or  whether  you  don't,  is  of  no  importance 
— why  aspire  to  authorship?" 

Before  they  married  she  had  counted  herself 


TIME,  THE  HUMORIST  283 

an  author  already.  She  winced.  But  his  remon- 
strance, affectionate  as  it  was,  took  the  pluck  out 
of  her.  She  let  the  subject  down,  and  put  her 
aspirations  on  the  shelf.  She  divided  her  time 
between  the  baby  and  the  books  henceforth, 
though  the  baby  came  gradually  to  receive  the 
larger  share. 

They  had  three  children,  and  an  odious  little 
house  in  Balham  when  she  did  pencil  "Act  I. — A 
Drawing-Room"  at  last.  She  did  not  mean  to 
let  Harding  guess  her  project  till  the  comedy  was 
finished;  she  knew  that  he  would  have  discour- 
aged her,  that  he  would  have  repeated  that  she 
had  no  quahfications  for  dramatic  work,  or,  at 
best,  that  it  was  years  too  soon  for  her  to  attempt 
it.  But  she  told  herself  that  when  the  piece  was 
done,  when  she  read  it  to  him,  and  saw  his  pleas- 
ure, that  would  make  amends  for  everything. 
She  pictured  his  surprise  as  she  said  carelessly, 
"Oh,  by  the  way,  if  you  can  spare  an  hour  this 
evening,  there's  something  I  want  you  to  hear!" 
The  anxiety  of  his  gaze  as  she  produced  the  man- 
uscript and  announced  "A  Comedy  in  Tliree 
Acts,"  she  could  imagine  that  too !  He  would  sit 
down  nervously,  twisting  his  moustache,  and,  of 
course,  her  voice  would  wobble  frightfully.  Then 
presently  his  face  would  change — she  foresaw  his 
smile,  the  sudden  Hft  of  his  head  at  a  good  line, 


284s    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

the  growing  wonder  of  his  expression.  In  her 
hopes  she  heard  him  exclaim  that  her  work  had 
wit,  brilhance,  and,  above  all,  reality — that  she 
had  amazed  and  made  him  proud  of  her.  It  was 
a  young  and  rather  foolish  woman's  dream,  but 
it  sprang  from  her  love  for  him  quite  as  much  as 
from  her  personal  ambitions. 

And  she  wrote.  She  drove  her  pen  in  secret 
for  months ;  she  was  not  a  slow  writer — far  from 
it — but  there  were  few  occasions  on  which  she 
could  feel  confident  of  being  undisturbed.  Her 
best  hours  were  when  there  was  a  "first  night" 
somewhere,  for  then  there  was  no  danger  of 
Harding  popping  into  the  room  before  she  could 
thrust  the  manuscript  out  of  sight.  While  the 
critic  sat  in  judgment  at  the  theatre,  his  wife  sat 
in  Balham  scribbling  dialogue  with  a  rapidity 
that  would  have  horrified  him.  Indeed,  it  made 
her  distrust  herself  in  moments;  she  questioned 
if  it  was  possible  for  first-rate  work  to  be  pro- 
duced so  quickly.  Yet  when  she  read  the  scene, 
it  sounded  capital.  She  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  her  swiftness  proved  her  to  be  even  more  ac- 
complished as  a  dramatist  than  she  had  supposed. 
Harding  generally  found  her  in  high  good-hu- 
mour when  he  returned.  And  though  it  was 
very  late,  for  now  his  notices  had  to  be  delivered 
before  he  went  home,  he  used  to  tell  her  the  plot 


TIME,  THE  HUMORIST  285 

of  the  play  that  he  had  been  to  see,  and  she  would 
agree  sapiently  with  all  his  observations. 

The  disciple  had,  in  fact,  become  a  companion 
by  now,  and,  despite  the  state  of  the  exchequer, 
Harding  knew  no  regret  for  having  married  her. 
When  he  recalled  the  uncultured  girl  of  the 
honejTnoon,  and  constrasted  her  with  the  woman 
who  understood  most  of  his  English  references 
and  quotations,  he  was  dehghted  with  the  success 
he  had  effected.  It  was  with  a  shock,  a  shudder, 
one  day,  that  he  picked  off  the  mantelpiece  a  bill 
for  typewriting  "'The  Audacity  of  Dinah,  in  three 
acts."  Forebodings  hinted  that  his  success  wasn't 
quite  so  triumphant  as  he  had  thought. 

"What's  this?" 

"Oh!"  How  stupid  she  had  been  to  leave  it 
there!  Now  she  had  to  tell  him  the  great  news 
differently  from  the  way  she  had  planned.  "It's 
mine." 

"I  see  it  is,"  said  Harding.  "  'The  Audacity 
of  Dinah'?" 

Her  nod  was  embarrassed.  "Yes." 
"I  didn't  know  you  were  writing." 
"No,  I  didn't  want  you  to  know  till  I  could 
read  it  to  you ;  I  meant  to  tell  you  after  dinner. 
I — I'm  very  anxious  to  hear  if  you  think  it  will 
do."  She  flushed,  and  smiled  shyly.  "I'm  rather 
pleased  with  it;  I've  been  at  it  a  long  time;  I 


286    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

think— I  think  I've  done  something  you'll  find  a 
good  word  for." 

"Baby!"  said  Harding,  pinching  her  cheek; 
"I've  no  doubt  I  shall  find  a  good  word  for  it, 
but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  say  things  you 
won't  like,  too.  I  shall  be  quite  candid  with  you, 
I  warn  you." 

"Oh,  that's  just  what  I  want,"  she  declared, 
laughing  happily;  "I  want  you  to  forget  who  I 
am  altogether — you  must  be  just  Herbert  Hard- 
ing listening  to  a  new  author.  No  compliments, 
no — what's  the  word? — euphemisms.  It's  to  be 
real  criticism,  please." 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Well,  when  am  I  to  hear 
it — at  once?" 

"I  think  after  dinner  will  be  best — I've  always 
pictured  you  listening  to  it  after  dinner.  And 
there'll  be  nothing  to  interrupt  us  when  the  last 
post  has  been.  Mind,  I  shall  be  awfully  fright- 
ened; you  must  make  allowances  for  that." 

Something  in  her  hearing,  in  her  voice — more 
still,  perhaps,  something  in  the  fact  that  she  was 
dear  to  him — raised  his  hopes.  His  suspense 
was  nearly  as  keen  as  her  own  while  they  dined. 
And  when  the  servant  had  shut  the  door,  and 
Gertrude  commanded  him  to  "sit  down  in  that 
chair,"  and  to  refrain  from  looking  at  her  for  the 


TIME,  THE  HUMORIST  287 

first  few  minutes,  his  hands  were  not  quite  steady 
as  he  filled  his  pipe. 

She  drew  her  own  chair  to  the  table,  and  after 
an  instant's  hesitation,  began  to  read. 

Harding  listened  intently,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the 
fire.  And  before  she  had  read  for  half  an  hour 
astonishmeirt  laid  hold  of  him.  Awhile  ago, 
catching  something  of  her  excitement,  he  had 
fancied  that  the  play  might  reveal  a  talent  that 
he  had  underrated,  a  promise  of  good  things  to 
come;  originally,  he  had  fancied  that  it  would 
repel  him ;  but  at  no  time  had  he  fancied  that  it 
would  be  quite  so  dejecting  as  it  was.  He  was 
astounded  that  any  woman  who  had  studied  so 
much  good  work  could  be  capable  of  writing  so 
badly.  The  man  suffered — silently  and  acutely 
suffered — as,  gaining  courage,  she  declaimed  her 
travesty  of  human  nature  with  gusto.  He  pitied 
her,  he  could  have  wept  for  her,  he  would  rather 
have  been  compelled  to  sit  out  a  pantomime  every 
night  for  a  year  than  to  tell  her  the  truth. 

But  she  closed  the  covers  of  Act  I.,  and  said, 
with  her  soul  in  her  eves,  "Well?" 

He  shifted  the  pipe  between  his  teeth,  and 
stifled  a  groan.  "Let  me  hear  it  right  through," 
he  answered,  postponing  the  evil  moment. 

"Act  II.,"  she  continued  in  a  clear  voice. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  the  ordeal  ended. 


288    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

His  wife  leant  back  in  her  seat,  her  hands  clasped 
in  her  lap,  and  waited. 

Despairingly  he  sought  for  some  particle  of 
honest  praise. 

"The  theme  isn't  bad,"  he  said. 

"All !" 

"But  it  isn't  worked  out  properly." 

"Oh!" 

He  hastened  to  add,  "There  are  lots  of  very 
pretty  lines." 

"That's  nice!"     She  beamed. 

"You  put  them  in  the  wrong  people's  mouths, 
though.  In  the  last  act,  you  make  your  misan- 
thrope talk  like  the  Cheeryble  Brothers." 

"Kindness  has  changed  his  nature  then.  Don't 
you  like  the  girl?" 

"She's  not  consistent,"  he  complained;  "she's 
seventeen  one  minute,  and  thirty-five  the  next. 
She  has  had  'no  social  experience,'  yet  she  scores 
off  the  woman  of  the  world  in  every  answer. 
That's  the  fault  all  through — if  you  see  a  chance 
for  something  smart,  you  can't  resist  it,  whether 
it's  appropriate  to  the  character  or  not.  The 
mother  makes  an  epigram  in  the  situation  where 
she  thinks  her  son  has  been  killed — she'd  be  in- 
articulate, she  wouldn't  fire  off  epigrams." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  At  last  she  said, 
stonily : 


TIME,  THE  HUMORIST  289 

"In  other  words,  you  don't  think  anything 
of  it?" 

He  shifted  the  pipe  again.    *'WelI " 

*'Oh,  be  frank,  Herbert!"  she  cried.  She  was 
very  white.  "There  musn't  be  any  humbug  be- 
tween you  and  me!" 

"It's  no  good,  Gertie,"  he  confessed  wretch- 
edly. 

She  gathered  it  up,  and  put  it  in  a  drawer, 
and  shut  the  drawer  very  quietly.  Her  mouth 
had  hardened.  He  was  a  distinguished  critic,  and 
her  husband;  but  she  was  an  author,  and  her 
pride  was  in  arms.  For  the  first  time  she  doubted 
his  wisdom.  For  the  first  time  she  opposed  her 
will  to  his.  It  was  "no  good,"  he  had  said — she 
could  not  accept  the  pronouncement,  she  would 
prove  to  him  that  he  was  wrong! 

"We  won't  talk  any  more  about  it,"  she  said 
presently,  when  he  offered  some  feeble  comfort. 
"I've  made  a  mistake,  that's  all."  But  she  meant 
that  her  mistake  was  having  invited  his  opinion, 
not  having  written  the  comedy. 

She  determined  to  submit  it  to  the  Piccadilly 
Theatre  without  delay.  Of  course,  she  would  not 
put  her  own  name  to  it  now — as  he  thought  it  so 
worthless  he  would  probably  object  to  its  being 
known  as  his  wife's  even  if  it  were  produced. 
She  would  choose  a  pseudonym.    And  if  her  work 


S90    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

were  taken,  if  it  made  a  success,  she  would  men- 
tion to  him,  very  gently,  but  firmly,  that  he  was 
too  ready  to  find  fault,  that  his  prejudices  warped 
his  judgment — in  fact,  that  he  wasn't  quite  so 
excellent  a  critic  as  he  believed  himself  to  be. 

At  this  point  it  may  be  stated  that  his  criticism 
of  The  Audacity  of  Dinah  was  absolutely  sound. 
The  piece  was  every  bit  as  bad  as  he  thought  it. 

She  posted  the  manuscript  the  following  after- 
noon, and  many  weeks  later  it  was  returned  to 
her  with  "regret."  The  Piccadilly,  she  said  dog- 
gedly, was  not  the  only  theatre  in  London — she 
made  up  the  parcel  once  more  and  sent  it  to  the 
Diadem.  The  Diadem  also  "regretted,"  and  took 
longer  to  communicate  the  fact.  To  several  West 
End  theatres  the  comedy  was  offered  unavail- 
ingly;  and  then — she  re-read  the  brief  note  with 
rapture  several  times — a  manager  wrote  asking 
her  to  call. 

INTot  before  the  contract  was  signed  and 
stamped  did  she  announce  her  news  to  Harding. 
It  was  a  great  moment  for  her.  Nearly  eighteen 
months  had  passed  since  the  day  of  the  reading, 
but  she  had  not  forgotten  the  humiliation  that  he 
had  inflicted.  He  realised  that  suddenly,  discom- 
fitingly,  by  the  inflexions  of  her  voice,  by  the  look 
in  her  eyes,  by  her  new  air  of  self-esteem. 

"I'm  very  glad  for  you,"  he  faltered.    And  she 


TIME,  THE  HUMORIST  291 

replied,  "I'm  sure  you  are,  dear,"  with  a  touch 
of  patronage. 

He  did  not  attend  the  production  himself;  as 
he  explained  to  her,  he  would  have  been  bound 
to  express  his  convictions  sincerely.  The  Editor 
put  on  another  man  to  "do"  The  Audacity  of 
Dinah,  and,  on  the  whole,  the  other  man's  notice 
was  favourable.  With  a  few  exceptions,  all  the 
Press  was  tolerant.  Better  still,  the  piece  cap- 
tured the  Public.  The  booking  next  day  was 
brisk,  and  increased  steadily  through  the  week. 
On  the  second  Saturday  night  they  played  to 
"the  capacity  of  the  house."  The  comedy  came 
to  be  known  as  one  of  the  few  genuine  successes 
of  the  year,  and  of  course  it  had  leaked  out  that 
the  author  was  Mrs.  Herbert  Harding.  The  il- 
lustrated journals  devoted  a  page  to  her  photo- 
graph, favouring  their  readers  with  details  of  her 
"literary  methods,"  and  with  her  views  on  the 
world  in  general.  A  manufacturer's  advertise- 
ments informed  the  kingdom  that  The  Audacity 
of  Dinah  had  been  written  with  a  "Dashaway 
Fountain  Pen  (price  10s.  6d.,  of  all  stationers)." 
She  lectured  to  the  Front  Row  Club  on  "How  to 
;Write  a  Play."  Posters  proclaimed  the  "300th 
Performance."  And  various  theatrical  managers 
expressed  a  deferential  hope  that  they,  too,  might 


293    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

be  privileged  to  produce  some  of  her  brilliant 
work. 

They  were.  She  has  never  written  anything 
so  popular  since,  but  she  has  reeled  out  several 
successful  plays,  of  similar  quality.  The  Hard- 
ings  have  removed  from  Balham,  and  live  in  a 
high-sounding  Terrace  at  a  fashionable  Gate,  and 
the  children  often  caution  Herbert  "not  to  make 
a  noise  on  the  stairs,  because  mamma  is  busy.'* 
Gertrude  is  a  personage  who  speaks  with  quiet 
authority  in  the  home  to-day,  and  drives  to  re- 
hearsal in  a  thousand-guinea  motor-car.  When 
he  goes  alone,  the  critic  takes  an  omnibus,  and 
feels  more  cheerful.  In  spite  of  the  luxurious 
menage  that  she  provides,  he  wishes  frequently 
that  he  were  alone  for  good. 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA 

I 

As  two  ladies  came  out  of  the  florist's  in  the  rue 
Royale  and  moved  towards  their  carriage,  the 
younger  of  the  pair  gave  a  start  of  surprise,  and 
exclaimed,  "Ernest!" 

"Who?"  said  Lady  Liddington,  vaguely. 

Her  niece  was  already  shaking  hands  with  him 
— a  young  man  with  a  voluminous  necktie  and  a 
soft  felt  hat,  who  looked  poor  and  clever  and  bo- 
hemian. 

"Ernest,"  she  cried,  "how  glad  I  am  to  see 

I" 
you! 

"Kate !  Who'd  have  thought  of  meeting  you 
here!"  He  gazed  at  her  with  astonishment  and 
admiration.  "I  should  hardly  have  recognised 
you." 

"I've  grown  up.  Let  me  .  .  .  my  aunt,  Lady 
Liddington.  You've  often  heard  of  Ernest, 
Aunt  Madge.  I  was  his  first  critic.  And  your 
mother  and  father?" 

"Quite  well,  thanks." 

"They're  with  you?" 

293 


294    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

*'No,  oh,  no!  they're  still  in  Coblenz.  The 
governor  grumbles  to  me  regularly  once  a  month ; 
the  mater  bears  it  better.  Poor  old  governor !  he 
was  meant  to  lounge  through  life  with  a  rose-bud 
in  his  buttonhole,  wasn't  he?  I've  been  hving  in 
Paris  nearly  five  years  now." 

"And  working?" 

"And  working.  I'm  a  painter,  of  sorts,  at  last." 

"I  can  see  you're  a  painter,"  laughed  the  girl. 
"Why 'of  sorts' ?" 

"Art  is  a  very  arduous  profession,  I  believe?" 
murmured  Lady  Liddington,  politely.  Mentally 
she  was  praying  that  no  one  who  knew  her  would 
happen  to  pass.  Really  the  young  man  was  a 
"sight"!    "Do  you  exhibit?" 

"Not  yet.    I  only  sell." 

"Oh?    I  always  understood " 

"I'm  at  the  lowest  of  the  practical  stages.  Lady 
Liddington.  At  present  I  sell — somehow !  Later 
on  I  shall  manage  to  exhibit,  and  be  unable  to 
sell.  Finally  I  hope  to  exhibit  and  sell,  too.  But 
the  way  is  long." 

"I  see,"  she  replied,  profoundly  uninterested. 

"A  real  live  artist!"  said  INIiss  Ormerod,  gaily. 
"How  proud  you  must  be!  It  seems  only  the 
other  day  that  you  were  a  boy  at  home,  dream- 
ing dreams." 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA  295 

"Yes,  I  was  good  at  dreams ;  dreams  don't  need 
anatomy.     How  well  I  remember  it  all!" 

"You  must  come  and  see  us,"  she  said,  "and 
soon !  I've  a  hundred  questions  to  ask  you.  What 
are  we  doing  to-morrow.  Aunt  Madge?" 

"Er — to-morrow?  There's  the  Elysee  in  the 
evening,  you  know;  and  the  next  night,  I'm 
afraid —    But  if  to-morrow  afternoon " 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  he  said. 

The  victoria  drove  away;  and  the  two  occu- 
pants mused  for  a  moment. 

The  elder  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Your  introduction  was  delicious.  Who  is  the 
gentleman?" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  him? 
—Ernest!" 

"Yes,  I  heard  you  call  him  'Ernest.'  I 
shouldn't  do  it  again  if  I  were  you.  Hasn't  he  a 
surname  by  any  chance?" 

"Not  call  him—?  Oh,  how  absurd!  He's 
Ernest  Mallock.  Why,  we  were  almost  like 
brother  and  sister  till  his  people  had  to  leave 
JNIoyamehane  and  go  abroad.  My  mother  must 
have  spoken  of  them  to  you  a  thousand  times." 

"Oh,"  said  Lady  Liddington,  "he's  Cyril  Mal- 
lock, is  he?  But  you're  not  in  the  wilds  of  County 
Roscommon  now,  remember !  You've  grown  up, 
and " 


296    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"And  the  Mallocks  have  lost  all  their  money!" 
concluded  Miss  Ormerod,  with  warmth.  "Don't 
leave  that  out,  because  it's  really  what  you  want 
to  say.  Yes,  they're  ruined — and  what  of  it?  If 
you  think  it's  any  reason  why  I  should  cut  a  boy 
in  the  streets  who " 

"My  dear,"  said  the  other,  plaintively,  "I  did 
not  suggest  that  you  should  cut  anybody  in  the 
streets.  I  only  hinted —  It's  very  unkind  of 
you  to  talk  like  that." 

The  girl  turned  apologetically. 

"Poor  Aunt  Madge!  Yes,  I  was  bolting, 
wasn't  I?  I'm  sorry.  But  if  you  knew  how 
happy  it  made  me  to  see  him — it  was  like  a  bit  of 
my  childhood  crossing  the  road.  It  was  Ernest 
who  taught  me  to  sit  a  horse,  and  how  to  throw  a 
fly.  It  was  Ernest  who  taught  me  not  to  paint. 
He  used  to  kiss  me  up  to  the  time  I  was  fifteen." 

"My  dear!"  She  looked  apprehensively  at  the 
coachman's  back.  "Don't!  .  .  .  So  he  is  Lord 
Fernahoe's  nephew,  that  young  man  in  the  dis- 
tressing costume?  Of  course  he  has  no  chance  of 
the  succession,  not  the  slightest.  Fernahoe  has  a 
son,  and  I've  met  him.  He's  twenty  years  of  age 
and  quite  offensively  robust.  Wins  cups  and 
things,  and  takes  absurd  dumb-bells  in  his  port- 
manteau when  he  stays  anywhere.  Your  friend 
can  go  on  dressing  like  a  disreputable  glazier 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA  297 

for  ever,  if  that's  the  only  prospect  he  can  boast." 

"I  don't  suppose  he  even  thinks  of  it.  His 
clothes  seem  to  j  ar  you  like  an  Anarchist  banner. 
He  used  to  be  rather  a  dandy,  I  can  tell  you,  till 
the  crash  came.  And  Lord  Fernahoe  might  have 
paid  off  the  mortgage  without  feeling  it — hateful 
man !  But  he  quarrelled  with  the  JMallocks  years 
ago." 

"Very  strange,  isn't  it?  Perhaps  his  brother 
did  something  disgraceful." 

"Why  on  earth  should  it  be  Mr.  JMallock's 
fault?" 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  my  dear.  Only 
one  of  them  must  have  been  to  blame,  it's  very 
certain;  and  it's  always  pleasanter  to  blame  the 
people  you  don't  meet ;  don't  you  think  so  ?  How 
sweet  those  roses  smell,  but  what  a  price!  I'm 
sorry  we  bought  them." 

Men  said  of  Madge  Liddington  that  she  was  "a 
good  sort."  Her  worldliness  was  not  disagree- 
able, not  too  real.  She  herself  said  that  she  knew 
what  she  ought  to  do,  but  somehow  never  did  it. 
Her  theories  were  more  cynical  than  her  heart. 
And  on  the  morrow,  when  ISIallock  came,  she  was 
gracious,  and  even  cordial. 

He  had  made  some  concessions  to  the  fashion- 
able address.  His  clothes,  if  shabby,  were  less 
unconventional  to-day;  and  obviously  he  had  no 


298    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

idea  of  falling  in  love  with  Kate.  There  was  too 
little  formality  between  them  for  a  chaperon  to  be 
wholly  pleased,  but,  at  the  same  time,  there  was 
nothing  on  either  side  to  suggest  the  existence 
of  sentiment. 

"Tell  me  all,"  said  Miss  Ormerod,  "tell  me 
frankly!  Does  it  come  up  to  your  expectations? 
You're  a  painter,  you're  in  Paris,  you're  in  bo- 
hemia;  is  it  all  as  lovely  as  you  thought  it  was 
going  to  be?  Does  everybody  talk  Art  and  rave 
about  the  time  when  he  will  'make  a  school,'  and 
discuss  his  'methods'  over  bocks  and  cigarettes? 
What  are  you  painting  now — can  we  see  your 
studio?" 

"Which  am  I  to  answer  first?"  he  laughed. 

"Talk!     Tell  me  what  the  hfe's  like." 

"It's  all  right.  Yes,  some  of  us  do  prose  about 
our  methods,  I'm  afraid,  and  we  drink  a  great 
many  bocks — when  we've  the  money  to  pay  for 
them;  and  my  Paris  isn't  a  bit  like  your  Paris — 
it's  a  different  world." 

"It  must  be  heavenly.  If  I'd  had  any  talent  I 
should  have  loved  to  go  in  for  it  myself.  And 
do  you  know  any  clever  people  besides  artists? 
Authors  and  actors,  I  mean?  Do  you  know  any 
people  with  long  hair?  Frenchmen  seem  to  go 
to  one  extreme  or  the  other — their  hair's  either 
waving  in  the  breeze  or  too  short  to  part.    All 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA  299 

the  people  who  come  here  are  the  cropped  and 
dull  ones." 

"Kate!" 

"Well,  they  are,  Aunt  ^ladge.  .  .  .  Do  you 
know  Sardou,  or  Alphonse  Daudet,  or  Sarah 
Bernhardt?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No.  I  know  one  or  two  English  correspond- 
ents. I  did  a  piece  of  newspaper  work  myself 
not  long  ago." 

"Really?" 

"In  collaboration.  Gladstone  was  expected  in 
Paris,  and  my  friend  thought  he'd  like  to  send  an 
Interview  with  him  to  his  paper.  We  wrote  it 
together  at  one  of  the  tables  outside  a  cafe  on 
the  Boul'  INIich'  while  Gladstone  was  still  travel- 
ling towards  the  gare  du  Nord.  We  credited  him 
with  some  highly  interesting  views.  I  don't  know 
if  they  were  ever  published." 

"Oh!" 

"And  do  you  prefer  living  here  to  being 
in  London?"  inquired  Lady  Liddington;  "or 
couldn't  you  work  so  well  at  home?" 

"I've  scarcely  thought  about  it,"  he  said,  with 
a  shrug;  "this  is  my  home  now.  Oh,  I  should 
say  London'd  be  ghastly — unless  one  were  mak- 
ing a  big  income.    For  the  smaller  fry " 

"Dull?" 


300    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"I  shouldn't  like  it.  I've  heard  about  it.  A 
fellow  that  I  know  here  works  for  London — 
black  and  white  work,  you  know.  Oh,  rather 
funny !  Did  you  ever  see  a  magazine  called  The 
Lantern?  It's  very  earnest — and  only  sixpence. 
Last  month  poor  Tassie  had  to  illustrate  the  Hne, 
'He  strolled  meditatively  through  the  summer 
night.'  He  made  the  man  lighting  a  cigar.  The 
other  day  he  got  his  sketch  back;  the  Editor 
wrote  reprovingly  that  'in  The  Laiitern  they 
didn't  smoke.'  " 

He  stayed  an  hour ;  and,  in  the  circumstances, 
could  one  do  less,  when  he  rose,  than  fix  an  eve- 
ning for  his  dining  there?  After  he  had  dined 
there,  what  was  more  natural  than  that  he  should 
call? 

Two  afternoons,  a  dinner,  and  a  host  of  mutual 
memories.  The  earlier  friendship  was  revived. 
And  Lady  Liddington  bowed  to  the  inevitable. 

They  saw  him  frequently  now.  He  sent  tickets 
to  them,  and  met  them  to  explain  the  virtues  of 
the  pictures.  And  if  the  elder  woman,  failing 
to  understand  why  magenta  cattle  should  graze 
on  purple  grass,  sometimes  sat  down  with  a  head- 
ache and  left  Kate  to  wander  round  the  room 
with  him  alone,  was  she  a  chaperon  without  de- 
fence ? 

They  were  not  in  love,  but  they  were  in  dan- 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA  301 

ger.  He  had  begun  to  look  forward  to  the  meet- 
ings, and  so  had  the  girl.  He  interested  her; 
she  was  interesting  to  him.  He  had  been  right 
in  saying  that  they  belonged  to  different  worlds ; 
and  that  their  lives  were  the  antithesis  of  each 
other  had,  itself,  a  fascination — the  deeper  for  the 
fact  that  they  had  once  been  so  much  alike.  He 
knew  his  BuUier,  his  JNIontmartre,  the  minor 
studios,  and  the  third-rate  cafes;  he  wasn't 
unfamiHar  with  the  interior  of  the  nearest  mont- 
de-piete.  But  of  the  Paris  unfolded  to  Lady 
Liddington's  niece  he  knew  very  little.  It  was 
a  novel  experience  to  him  to  see  a  dinner-table 
poetised  by  flowers  and  a  Salviati  service.  It  was 
even  a  strange  thing  to  Mallock  tc  be  sitting  in 
a  room  with  two  ladies  and  listening  to  ladies' 
conversation. 

If,  as  the  weeks  passed,  he  told  himself  that 
he  was  being  a  fool,  it  must  be  conceded  that  the 
temptation  to  folly  was  a  strong  one ;  but  it  must 
also  be  acknowledged  that  he  told  the  truth.  He 
already  thought  much  too  often  of  Miss  Orinerod 
for  a  man  who  could  not  hope  to  marry  her,  and 
yet  he  continued  to  see  her  because  he  was  too 
weak  to  stay  away. 

Then  he  knew  that  he  loved  her.  He  ceased  at 
last  to  excuse  himself  by  saying  that  he  found 
her  "companionable,"  that  there  was  "nothing  in 


302    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

it";  he  knew  that  he  loved  her,  that  the  world 
was  peopled  by  men,  women,  and  Kate  Orme- 
rod;  that  she  stood  on  a  plane  by  herself — dif- 
ferent from  everyone  else. 

Paris  now — the  Paris  that  was  open  to  him — 
stank  in  his  nostrils.  When  he  could  not  be  with 
her  during  the  day,  he  worked  doggedly,  and 
badly,  finding  occupation  a  relief  to  his  impa- 
tience ;  but  in  the  evening,  to  paint  was  impossible 
— and  it  was  in  the  evening  that  he  ate  his  heart 
out. 

He  had  not  the  faintest  right  ever  to  own  his 

.feelings  to  her,  and  he  was  aware  of  it.    If  he 

acted  properly,  he  would  assert  that  he  had  to  go 

to  Caudebec  or  somewhere  and  say  good-bye ;  but 

he  could  not  string  himself  to  the  necessary  pitch. 

And,  after  all,  he  argued,  since  he  confessed 
nothing,  asked  for  nothing,  why  should  he  deny 
himself  the  only  happiness  that  he  possessed? 
Yes,  he  was  passionately  in  love  with  her — but, 
if  he  didn't  say  so,  what  harm  did  it  do?  It 
would  end  by  making  him  infernally  miserable? 
Well,  that  was  his  affair!  He  would  be  infer- 
nally miserable,  anyhow ! 

However,  if  the  man  was  not  disposed  to  do 
his  duty,  the  time  had  arrived  when  Lady  Lid- 
dington  had  to  do  hers.  One  morning,  when  he 
called  with  some  tickets  and  was  shown  into  the 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA  SOS 

drawing-room,  she  was  in  it  alone,  reading  a 
Tauchnitz  novel.  Kate  was  practising,  he  was 
told;  indeed,  he  could  hear  the  piano. 

"I  was  going  to  write  to  you,"  said  Lady  Lid- 
dington;  "we're  returning  to  London." 

He  stared  at  her  blankly. 

"It's  an  awful  bore;  we  meant  to  stay  quite 
two  months  longer.    But  things  pull  me  back." 
1  ou  go  soon  i 

"To-morrow.  And  I'm  such  a  shocking  sailor.'* 

Miss  Ormerod  had  begun  Chopin's  Second 
Nocturne.  Mallock  listened  to  a  line  of  it  in- 
tensely, without  realising  he  listened.  He  felt 
that  he  had  turned  pale,  and  that  it  was  essential 
to  say  something;  but  his  mind  refused  to  yield 
a  commonplace.  Lady  Liddington,  who  had 
avoided  plain-speaking  with  her  niece  by  the 
same  pretext,  was  no  longer  confident  that  the 
necessity  for  plain-speaking  had  been  escaped. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  at  last.  He  played  with 
the  book  she  had  put  down.  .  .  .  "Is  it  good?" 
he  asked  desperately. 

"It's  a  romance.  No,  stereotyped.  A  romance 
always  ends  with  a  marriage." 

"Isn't  that  realistic?  Marriage  is  generally 
the  end  of  romance." 

"You're  practical,  Mr.  Mallock." 

"Quite  the  reverse,  I'm  afraid,"  he  stammered, 


S04    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

hot  with  the  sudden  fear  that  she  might  be  im- 
puting mercenary  motives. 

Their  gaze  met  in  a  pause,  and  she  answered 
him  gently: 

"Ah,  well,  to  be  practical  is  often  distressing!" 

"This  is  au  revoir,  then?"  He  got  up.  "Shall 
I  see  Miss  Ormerod?" 

"I  don't  think  she  has  been  told  you're  here. 
I'll  let  her  know." 

"Please  don't  trouble!  I  can  say  'good-bye'  as 
I  pass  the  room.  I  hope  you  will  have  a  smooth 
crossing." 

He  wasn't  forbidden,  and  his  face  thanked  her. 

Kate  lifted  her  head  as  the  handle  turned. 

"You!" 

"So  you're  going  away?"  he  said  huskily. 

"We  go  to-morrow."    Her  voice  was  nervous. 

"Your  aunt  just  told  me.  I  shan't  see  you  any 
more." 

"Not  before  we  leave,  I  suppose." 

"I  mayn't  see  you  again  at  all.  Perhaps  you 
won't  come  back  to  Paris." 

"Oh,  yes — some  time!" 

"I  shall  miss  you  horribly.  I  don't  know  what 
I  shall  do  without  you." 

"We've  been  very  good  friends."  She  stroked 
a  key  of  the  piano  slowly.  "It  seems  a  long  while 
since  we  met  again." 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA  305 

"Good-bye!"  said  Mallock,  jerkily.  He  put 
out  his  hand,  and  she  rose.  His  misery  glowed 
in  his  eves.  In  hers — but  he  dared  not  read  them. 
He  caught  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it,  and 
went  out.  Lady  Liddington  heard  the  door 
close.  .  .  .  The  nocturne  was  not  resumed. 


II 

Well,  it  was  all  over!  He  had  never  been  so 
wretched  in  his  life.  He  walked  away  aimlessly ; 
it  was  nothing  to  him  where  he  went.  Outside 
the  Grand  Hotel  he  collided  with  a  gentleman 
hurrying  from  the  courtyard.  Both  looked  round 
with  resentment.    The  gentleman  was  his  father. 

The  next  instant  ISIallock  realised  that  his 
father  was  in  deep  mourning.  "Good  God!  My 
mother — ?"  he  faltered. 

"Your  mother  was  never  better,"  exclaimed 
the  other  gaily,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder; 
"she  sends  her  love,  and  a  thousand  messages! 
I  was  on  my  way  to  you.  Let  me  look  at  you. 
Well,  well,  well!  it  is  good  to  see  you  again, 
Ernest.    You  know  the  news,  don't  you  ?" 

"News?    What  news?" 

"  'What  news'  ?  You  haven't  heard  ?  Prepare 
yourself!"  He  chuckled.  "Prepare  yourself, 
my  boy!" 


306    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Something  good?" 

"It  is  very  sad,"  returned  his  father,  suddenly 
assuming  an  expression  of  solemnity,  "very  ter- 
rible. But  as  we  have  seen  nothing  of  them  for 
so  long —  My  brother  and  his  son  are  dead — • 
drowned.  A  yacht  accident.  Poor  ^laurice !  He 
had  his  faults,  but — poor  Maurice !  .  .  .  Let's  go 
inside — you  haven't  lunched,  have  you?  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it." 

The  bohemian  listened,  half  stupefied. 

"You're  Lord  Fernahoe?"  he  said.  "You're 
Lord  Fernahoe  now?" 

"And  you're  the  Honourable  Ernest  Mallock. 
Better  than  your  profession,  eh?  Not  but  what 
you  might  have  a  studio  still,  if  you  fancied  it. 
It  would  be  rather  chic.  And  all  the  pretty 
women  could  come  and  have  their  portraits 
painted.    But,  to  think  you  didn't  know!" 

"I  haven't  opened  a  paper  for  a  week.  But — 
but  Miss  Ormerod's  here,  with  Lady  Liddington. 
It's  amazing  they  haven't  seen  it." 

"Well,  of  course  they've  seen  it!" 

"I  can  swear  they  haven't.  Great  heavens, 
Governor,  what  a  change  for  you!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  peer,  complacently,  "it'll  be  a 
change  after  Coblenz.  I've  borne  my  reverses, 
Ernest,  I've  never  complained ;  but  my  health  is 
not  what  it  was.     I — I  haven't  the  physique  for 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA  S07 

the  life  of  a  poor  man."  He  spoke  as  if  he  had 
been  condemned  to  be  a  dock-labourer.  "How 
do  you  think  I'm  looking?" 

"You're  looking  as  well  as  ever — and  as 
young." 

"Nonsense,  nonsense!  Ha!  ha!  What'll  you 
drink?  We  had  better  have  champagne — my 
doctor  advises  a  glass  of  champagne.  .  .  .  You 
must  order  some  clothes.  You  are — you  are 
damned  shabby.  Go  to  a  tailor  to-day ;  don't  for- 
get. What  are  you  doing  with  yourself  this  eve- 
nmg? 


"Nothing,"  said  ]\Iallock.    "That's  to  say " 

"Nothing  that  won't  keep.  You'll  meet  me, 
and  we'll  have  a  little  dinner  together  at — Big- 
non's  is  gone,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Where  do  you  go,  as  a  rule?" 

"I?"  He  smiled  grimly.  "I'm  afraid  my 
haunts  would  hardly  suit  you." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Well,  all  that's  finished. 
You've  grown  very  handsome,  Ernie;  you  re- 
mind me  of  myself  when  I  was  your  age.  I  may 
say  that  now — an  old  man?  .  .  .  But  you  look 
dazed.  It  was  a  horrible  affair;  poor  Maurice! 
poor  INIaurice!    But  don't  look  so  dazed." 

"You've  staggered  me,"  said  Mallock,  gulping 


808    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

his  wine.    "I — I —    If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  leave 
you  now.    Where  shall  we  meet?" 

"Call  for  me  here,"  said  Fernahoe,  airly;  "say 
six  o'clock.  There  are  some  things  I've  got  to 
attend  to :  I  have  to  be  shaved,  and —  By  the 
way,  to-morrow  I  can  let  you  have  a  substantial 
sum;  in  the  meanwhile,  here's  something  to  go 
on  with — I  suppose  it'll  be  useful?  Six  o'clock, 
then,  sharp.  And  don't  forget  the  tailor.  Ta! 
ta!" 

"Six  o'clock.  Thanks.  I  won't  be  late." 
Lorn  Fernahoe  signed  to  a  cabman.  His  son 
stood  stupidly  on  the  kerb  after  the  cab  had  rat- 
tled away.  His  eyes  were  wide,  and  his  mouth 
was  set.  After  a  minute  he  crossed  the  road,  and 
turned  down  the  avenue  de  I'Opera,  still  with  the 
fixed  stare.  Among  the  traffic  of  the  rue  de 
Rivoli,  he  hesitated;  he  seemed  in  doubt.  Then 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  slouched  on — 
away  from  fashion,  to  the  place  St.  Michel.  On 
the  boulevard  one  or  two  threw  him  a  gi-eeting. 
He  did  not  know  it.  His  face  was  grey ;  now  and 
again  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  it  with  a 
hand  that  shook.  Threading  his  way  through  a 
maze  of  dilapidated  streets,  he  came  to  a  narrow 
doorway,  next  a  shop-window  packed  high  with 
charcoal  and  wood.  There  was  a  flight  of  dirty 
stairs,  and  he  mounted  them  very  slowly. 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA  309 

The  room  was  bedroom  and  parlour,  too.  The 
bed  was  in  disorder;  on  the  table  the  remainder 
of  a  stew  that  had  been  hot  two  hours  ago  was 
stiffening  in  the  gravy.  A  baby  of  twelve- 
months, unkempt,  uncared  for,  lay  fretting  on  a 
pillow  on  the  floor;  and  a  woman  in  a  flannel 
dressing-gown  sat  reading  an  English  novelette. 
She  turned  her  untidy  head,  shedding  a  hair-pin 
as  she  moved. 

"Oh,  here  you  are!"  said  Ernest  Mallock's  wife. 

He  threw  himself  on  the  bed.    "I'm  here!" 

"Have  you  brought  back  any  money?" 

"Take  all  you  want." 

"My  word!"  she  exclaimed,  with  delight. 
"You're  in  luck!" 

"Yes,"  he  groaned,  "I'm  devilish  lucky!" 

She  stooped  for  the  fallen  hair-pin,  and  picked 
her  teeth  with  it. 

"Where  does  it  come  from?  You've  never  sold 
that  old  'Solitude,'  surely?" 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake  be  quiet!"  he  said,  "I'm 
tired." 

"Where  have  you  been?     Everything's  got 
cold.    Shall  I  hot  it  up  for  you?" 
"No,  never  mind,  Bessy." 
"It  won't  take  a  minute." 
"I  don't  want  it." 
"How's  that?"  she  asked  sullenly. 


310    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"I  had  dejeuner  out." 

"Oh,  you  had  your  dirgennay  out  again!  Who 
with?  You've  taken  to  dirgennaying  out  a  good 
deal,  haven't  you  ?  Jolly  for  me,  I'm  sure — stuck 
at  'ome  with  the  kid  while  you're  enjoying  your- 
self?   Seems  to  me  you're  all  alike." 

"Does  it?" 

"Yes,  it  does,"  she  said  angrily,  imitating  his 
inflexion;  "yes,  it  does,  Mr.  Sneerer!  And  I  tell 
you  more;  I  don't  believe  there's  a  decent  one 
among  the  lot  of  you.    Do  you  hear?" 

"Oh?" 

^^I  saw  you  the  other  day  in  the  rue  Scribe,  with 
two  women.  Very  classy  they  were — to  look  at. 
You  didn't  see  me,  did  you?  But  I  saw  you! 
Who  were  tliey?    Answer  me  that." 

"They  were  ladies  that  I  might  have  known 
better  if  I  had  had  more  sense." 

"I  suppose  that's  meant  for  me?  You  didn't 
look  at  the  young  one  as  if  you'd  like  to  eat  her 
up,  did  you?" 

"Be  quiet!"  he  burst  out.  "Now,  then,  be 
quiet!  I  won't  have  you  speak  about  her.  I've 
had  enough!" 

"Oh,  what  a  fine  gentleman!  Not  speak  about 
her,  eh?  His  wife  mustn't  so  much  as  speak  about 
her!  We've  come  to  a  pretty  pass!  Listen  to 
your  father,  my  Blessing!     And  she    was  no 


THE  BACK  OF  BOHEMIA  311 

beauty,  neither.  Find  better  figures  than  hers  in 
any  Hfe  class,  for  all  her  swank.  Any  girl  who 
ain't  his  wife,  that's  it!  So  long  as  she  ain't  his 
wife,  any  girl's  good  enough  for  a  man.  I  could 
look  like  it,  too,  if  you  gave  me  the  money  to  do 
it  on.  'Won't  have  me  speak  about  her'?  Who 
do  you  think  you're  talking  to?  I've  a  good  mind 
to  smack  your  face!" 

He  clasped  his  hands  on  his  head,  and  lay  mo- 
tionless. 

"I'm  tired,"  he  repeated,  wearily.  "For  God's 
sake,  shut  up!    I  want  to  go  to  sleep." 

But  it  wasn't  true — he  wanted  to  think;  he 
wanted  to  curse  himself  and  die.  In  me  riory  he 
was  re-living  the  night  of  his  first  meeting  with 
her;  an  English  girl  in  a  divan  off  the  boulevard 
St.  Martin — insulted,  on  the  evening  of  his  pres- 
ence, by  a  French  student.  He  recalled  the  en- 
thusiasm with  which  he  had  knocked  the  man 
down;  the  general  row — the  cry  of  "English 
chaps  forward!"  She  wept,  and  blessed  him,  on 
the  pavement,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It 
transpired  that  she  was  virtuous ;  and  he  afforded 
the  quarter  another  example  of  "the  English  ec- 
centricity." After  reflection,  he  offered  to  send 
her  back  to  London.  She  had  been  unhappy 
there — she  wept  again,  and  didn't  want  to  go. 
He  supported  her  until  she  found  employment 


S12    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

as  a  model.  She  was  pretty;  was  the  end  sur- 
prising? She  thought  she  was  in  love  with  him 
— let  him  see  as  much — and  he  was  in  love  with 
romance.  Whom  had  he  to  study?  Life  with 
her  would  be  "very  jolly"!  It  was  a  boy's  in- 
fatuation for  bohemia,  while  bohemia  was  foreign 
to  him.  Its  front  had  been  delightful.  He  mar- 
ried her.    This  was  the  back  of  it. 

She  picked  up  the  paper,  and  he  regarded  her 
under  lowered  lids.  She  was  pretty  still,  but  he 
hated  every  expression  on  her  face.  He  hated 
her  every  attitude,  and  the  notes  of  her  laugh. 
Every  little  harmless  habit  that  she  had  made  his 
nerves  ache. 

It  was  half-past  four.  This  evening  he  would 
have  to  confess  the  truth  to  his  father.  How  to 
do  it?  And  he  must  tell  Bessy  of  her  new  im- 
portance and  witness  her  ecstasies. 

The  hands  of  a  tawdry  French  clock  crept  on. 
If  he  meant  to  keep  the  appointment,  he  must 
go  soon! 

The  novelette  engrossed  her  now.  Flies 
swarmed  about  the  table,  settling  on  the  meat. 
The  dirty  baby  slept.  When  the  clock  struck 
again,  Mallock  dragged  himself  from  the  unmade 
bed  to  announce  his  marriage. 


THE  LADY  OF  LYOXS' 

The  jovial  solicitor  who  smacked  his  clients  on 
the  back  had  absconded,  and  the  minor  poet  had 
no  longer  fifty  pounds  per  annum.  Although  he 
was  a  minor  poet,  which — strangely  enough — is  a 
term  of  contempt  in  this  country,  though  we  are 
enjoined  to  be  grateful  for  even  small  mercies,  he 
was  as  human  as  minor  novelists  and  minor  critics, 
and  he  suffered.  Also  he  woke ;  he  realised  how 
small  had  been  the  world's  demand  for  the  wares 
in  which  he  dealt — he  acknowledged  that  for 
twenty  years  he  had  been  living  on  his  little  in- 
come, not  on  his  little  books. 

His  name  was  Smith.  It  was,  perhaps,  one  of 
the  reasons  why  his  poetry  was  unread.  Only  a 
reviewer  possessed  of  unusual  courage  could  have 
discovered  "the  great  poetry  of  INIr.  Smith." 
Only  a  poet  devoid  of  commercial  instincts  could 
have  failed  to  adopt  a  nom  de  guerre. 

In  the  face  of  disaster  Mr.  Smith  did  not  make 
precisely  this  reflection,  but  he  reflected  painfully 
that  a  lack  of  commercial  ability  was  no  longer  a 
matter  to  be  recognised  with  a  smile.  He  stood 
among  the  daffodils  in  the  village  garden,  and 


814    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

asked  Heaven  what  would  become  of  him.  He 
was  seven-and- thirty;  the  only  craft  that  he  had 
learnt  was  useless ;  and  he  had  to  earn  his  bread- 
and-cheese. 

As  Heaven  returned  no  answer,  he  sought  the 
advice  of  friends.  He  was  a  lovable  creature, 
though  a  writing  man,  and  his  friends  were  sym- 
pathetic. They  all  invited  him  to  dinner,  and 
assured  him  warmly  that  they  would  bear  his  ne- 
cessities in  mind.  If  anything  turned  up,  he 
might  rely  upon  their  telegraphing  to  him.  Being 
of  a  trustful  disposition,  Mr.  Smith  returned  to 
the  daffodils,  encouraged. 

And  they  withered  while  he  waited  for  a  tele- 
gram. 

When  they  hung  their  heads,  he  sought  advice 
again.  This  time  his  friends  did  not  invite  him 
to  dinner,  but  they  pointed  out  to  him,  lest  he 
should  overlook  it,  that  he  was  a  poet — in  other 
words,  that  he  was  a  difficult  person  to  serve. 
"You  have  no  experience,  you  see,"  they  said 
frankly.  "You  are  intelligent,  but  you  have  no 
experience,  Robert."  When  a  man  is  untravelled 
in  the  groove  that  we  ourselves  tread,  we  say  that 
he  has  "no  experience." 

One  afternoon  the  poet  went  abroad.  The 
journey  cost  him  a  penny,  and  he  travelled  from 
Charing  Cross  as  far  as  the  Bank.    He  was  bound 


THE  LADY  OF  LYONS'  315 

for  an  office  in  Lombard  Street,  and  as  he  called 
by  appointment,  a  clerk  showed  him  promptly 
to  Mr.  Hutton's  private  room. 

The  business  man  who  received  him  had  once 
been  a  little  boy  in  a  sailor  suit,  and  he  and  Rob- 
ert  had  played  together  in  a  nursery.  To-day  he 
had  numerous  financial  irons  in  the  fire,  and  one 
of  them  required  an  obedient  gentleman  to  watch 
it.  Affection  suggested  Robert  for  the  post. 
The  duties  were  simple,  and  the  salary  was  slight, 
but  if  the  iron  came  out  in  good  condition,  there 
was  to  be  a  slice  of  the  iron,  too. 

They  chatted  for  a  long  while.  Robert  was 
admitted  to  some  confidences  about  the  other 
irons — the  patents,  and  the  shares,  and  the  con- 
cessions. All  the  time  that  he  listened  he  was 
seeing  the  business  man  as  a  little  boy  in  a  sailor 
suit  again,  and  was  awestruck  to  hear  the  little 
boy  talking  so  glibly  of  such  mysteries.  Blankly 
he  felt  that  he  himself  had  omitted  to  grow  up; 
he  decided  that  people  were  right  in  declaring 
that  he  had  no  experience;  it  appeared  to  him 
suddenly  that  he  had  learnt  nothing  in  his  life. 
But,  of  course,  he  had  learnt  many  things,  though 
never  the  most  important  one — how  to  make 
money. 

Often  they  were  interrupted  by  the  telephone 
bell,  and  during  one  of  the  colloquies  on  the  tele- 


316    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

phone  Mr.  Hutton  seemed  depressed.  Robert 
feared  he  was  being  browbeaten  until  he  hung 
up  the  receiver,  and  announced,  smihng,  that  he 
had  "made  five  hundred  pounds  by  that  conver- 
sation." It  was  miraculous.  Robert  had  not 
made  five  hundred  pounds  by  twenty  years  of 
work. 

"Let's  go  out  and  get  a  cup  of  coffee,"  said 
Mr.  Hutton,  and  piloted  the  poet  through  a  maze 
of  alleys  to  a  retiring  doorway.  "What  will  you 
have  to  drink?"  The  poet  discovered  that  after 
two  o'clock  "a  cup  of  coffee"  in  the  City  is  gen- 
erally a  synonym  for  a  whisky-and-soda. 

The  little  bar  was  crowded,  and  he  was  sur- 
prised at  seeing  such  a  number  of  business  men 
doing  nothing  so  leisurely.  One  man  to  whom  he 
was  introduced  asked  him  if  he  knew  how  the 
"House"  closed,  but  he  did  not  even  know  what 
it  meant.  They  discoursed  in  groups,  and  a 
strange  language;  Robert  was  flooded  by  com- 
passion for  the  barmaid.  All  expounded  different 
views,  and  all  the  views  were  equally  unintelli- 
gible to  him.  The  only  point  of  unanimity  he 
perceived  was  the  wisdom  of  having  "a  fiver  each 
way."  As  often  as  anybody  entered,  the  several 
groups  waved  hands,  and  the  newcomer  accepted 
a  whisky-and-soda  with  a  piece  of  lemon  in  it, 
among  the  group  he  fancied  best.     On  leaving, 


THE  LADY  OF  LYONS'  317 

Mr.  Hutton  remarked  that  he  had  "sometimes 
made  as  much  as  a  thousand  pounds  by  dropping 
in  there."    Robert  reeled. 

Soon  he  went  every  day  to  the  strange  land 
where  man  talked  a  language  that  he  did  not 
know.  It  had  been  decided  that  he  should  watch 
the  iron  in  the  neighbourhood,  so  that  Mr.  Hut- 
ton  might  extend  a  guiding  hand  without  discom- 
fort, and  an  office  was  rented  in  Eastcheap. 
Eastcheap  is  a  sour-smelling  thoroughfare  into 
which  dirty  loafers  emerge  from  the  courts  of 
Billingsgate  in  order  that  they  may  have  more 
room  to  spit.  Distressing  as  Robert  found  it  to 
sit  in  the  office,  he  found  it  more  distressing  to 
go  out. 

Of  course  not  many  people  see  the  City. 
Myriads  saw  it  once,  but  that  was  when  they 
came  there  in  their  youth.  Few  are  to  be  dis- 
covered in  the  City  who  remember  how  it  looks. 
Occasionally  a  clerk  in  his  first  berth  may  be 
found  who  sees  the  City,  but  he  is  not  promised 
to  the  casual  searcher,  for  City  clerks  as  a  body 
are  observant  in  the  streets  of  one  thing  only. 
They  observe  neckties.  This  passion,  to  which 
the  hosiers  of  the  district  pander  inordinately, 
was  displayed  to  the  poet  between  the  hours  of 
one  and  two,  wet  or  fine.  From  desk  to  food, 
from  food  to  desk,  streamed  the  black  multiude, 


318    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

expressionless,  torpid  and  unseeing,  until  neck- 
ties flaunted  in  a  window;  then  the  vacant  faces 
brightened,  and  there  was  a  block.  The  rule  of 
the  pavement  is  known  everywhere  excepting  in 
the  City,  where  it  is  most  needed;  but  at  the 
hosiers'  windows  pedestrianism  became  more  than 
an  effort — it  became  a  feat. 

Robert's  eyes  had  no  custom  in  them;  Robert 
did  see  the  City,  and  he  was  unhappier  than  he 
had  poetry  to  tell;  for  that  matter,  he  did  not* 
try  to  tell  it.  He  wrote  nothing  now  but  figures, 
and  commercially  ungrammatical  epistles  which 
took  him  a  long  time  to  compose.  For  twenty 
years  he  had  believed  his  rushlight  was  a  star — 
he  had  done  with  illusion  at  last.  Illusion  was  in 
its  grave,  and  the  Failure  laid  his  hope  of  laurels 
on  the  top.  Yet  he  thought  tenderly  of  Illusion. 
The  funeral  was  over,  but  he  mourned.  He  had 
embraced  a  new  career,  but  he  did  not  love  it. 
Although  he  repeated  that  the  past  was  dead,  he 
could  not  prevent  its  ghost  haunting  Eastcheap. 
There  were  moments  when  it  chilled  the  iron. 

Often,  as  he  forced  his  dreary  way  to  luncheon, 
it  walked  beside  him.  He  lunched  sometimes  with 
his  preserver  in  the  restaurants  of  the  Employ- 
ers. Generally  he  lunched  with  the  ghost  in  the 
restaurants  of  the  Employed.  He  noted  that  in 
the  former  the  meat  was  tainted  less  frequently. 


THE  LADY  OF  LYONS'  319 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Employed  were  served 
by  clean,  quiet  girls  instead  of  by  sleezy,  vocif- 
erous waiters. 

One  afternoon  he  lunched  at  an  establishment 
that  he  had  not  tried  before.  The  ghost  had  been 
insistent  all  the  morning.  He  found  a  vacant 
seat,  hung  up  his  hat,  and  examined  the  bill  of 
fare.  He  was  in  one  of  the  more  modest  restau- 
rants of  Messrs.  Lyons,  and  around  him  young 
men  and  women  with  blank  faces  chumped  beef- 
steak pudding,  and  read  sixpenny  editions  of  the 
novels  that  are  written  for  them.  The  girl  be- 
side him  ordered  apple-tart.  Her  voice  was 
pleasant,  and  momentarily  he  regretted  that  in 
reading  she  leant  her  cheek  upon  her  palm,  for 
she  hid  her  profile.  It  should  have  been  a  pretty 
profile,  to  match  her  voice.  Moved  by  an  impulse 
of  curiosity,  he  glanced  at  the  page  she  pondered, 
and  then  he  dropped  the  menu :  she  was  reading 
his  own  verse! 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  the  girl,  surveying 
him  with  dignity. 

"I  apologise,"  stammered  the  poet;  "I  was 
startled." 

Evidently  she  found  his  excuse  inadequate, 
and  he  was  thankful  that  at  this  moment  they 
were  left  with  the  table  to  themselves.    "I  meant 


320    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

that  I  was  startled  to  see  the  book  you  were  read- 
ing," he  explained. 

"I  see  nothing  startling  in  it,"  said  the  lady, 
still  frigid. 

He  felt  that  she  might  have  expressed  herself 
more  happily,  but  hew  as  in  no  position  to  rebuke 
her.  "Of  course  in  one  sense  it  isn't  startling  at 
all,"  he  concurred;  "in  fact,  it's  very  feeble." 

"I  am  afraid  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  rejoined 
his  reader;  and  the  haughtiness  of  her  contradic- 
tion warmed  his  heart. 

"You  can't  mean  you  really  hke  it?" 

"I  hke  it  very  much."  She  had  grey  eyes  that 
challenged  him  scornfully;  he  sunned  himself  in 
her  disdain. 

"Did  you  buy  it?"  he  asked,  a  tremor  in  his 
tone. 

"Really — !"  she  began.  But  his  air  was  so  re- 
spectful that  she  added  the  next  instant,  "Yes, 
for  twopence,  second-hand." 

"Ah!"  said  the  poet.  "Still,  it's  a  most  ex- 
traordinary occurrence." 

She  looked  away  from  him  with  a  frown;  her 
attention  was  divided  between  his  verse  and  the 
apple-tart.  Robert  sat  a  prey  to  tempation.  To 
melt  her  by  avowing  himself  would  be  ridiculous, 
but  agreeable.     Succumbing,  he  murmured: 


THE  LADY  OF  LYONS'  321 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  glad  you  like  the 
book." 

"Eh?"  she  said.    "Why?" 

"Because  I  wrote  it." 

It  should  have  been  a  dramatic  moment,  but 
the  girl  bungled  her  part  and  disbelieved  him. 

Fully  five  minutes  were  devoted  to  convincing 
her.  However,  the  five  minutes  brought  such  a 
flutter  of  pink  to  her  cheeks,  so  tender  a  glow 
into  her  eyes,  that  the  time  was  by  no  means 
wasted. 

"I  couldn't  expect  to  meet  a  j)oet  in  the  City," 
she  pleaded. 

"And  certainly  I  couldn't  expect  to  meet  any 
Gentle  Reader  here,"  said  Robert.  He  examined 
the  slim  volume  ruefully. 

"In  such  good  condition,  and  only  twopence!" 
he  complained. 

"If  it  had  been  more  I  mightn't  have  bought 
it,"  she  said. 

He  found  himself  resigned  to  the  book's  hav- 
ing been  marked  down  to  twopence. 

She  told  him  that  she  wrote  shorthand  in  an 
office  in  Cornhill.  Eastcheap  lay  in  the  same  di- 
rection, and  after  she  had  gone  he  felt  that  it 
would  have  been  pleasurable  to  walk  some  of  the 
way  beside  her. 


322    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

He  was  sorry,  too,  that  he  had  omitted  to  in- 
quire if  she  irradiated  the  restaurant  daily. 

On  the  morrow  he  betook  himself  to  Lyons* 
with  hope.  He  descried  the  lady  at  a  distant 
table,  and  it  had  the  charm  of  vacant  chairs. 
There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  ignore  them. 

"You  are  often  in  the  City,  then?"  she  asked 
as  he  sat  down. 

"I  come  every  day,"  said  Robert;  and  seeing 
she  was  mystified,  he  added,  "I  am  in  an  office 
here,  like  you." 

But  plainly  this  mystified  her  more  still.  "Do 
you  mean  you  are  in  business?" 

"Truly,"  he  told  her.  "I  think  I  shall  have 
roast-beef." 

"I  should  try  the  mutton,"  she  said.  "But  you 
are  a  poet?" 

"I  used  to  fancy  myself  one." 

It  was  very  absurd,  but  before  they  paid  their 
bills  he  was  informing  her  that  he  had  divorced 
his  Muse,  and  was  in  a  foreign  land  alone.  This 
time  they  left  the  restaurant  together. 

"That,  O  foreigner,"  said  the  lady  of  Lyons', 
*'is  the  Roj^al  Exchange!" 

"I  know,"  said  Robert.  "But  what  do  they  ex- 
change in  it?" 

"I  have  no  idea,"  she  confessed.  "If  you  like, 
we  will  ask  a  policeman." 


THE  LADY  OF  LYONS'  323 

"A  curious  thing  about  policemen,"  remarked 
the  poet,  "is  that  if  you  want  a  poHte  answer, 
you  should  avoid  putting  your  question  politely. 
They  are,  conspicuously,  a  class  who  respect  rude- 
ness. How  long  have  you  been  coming  to  the 
City,  to  learn  so  much  about  it?" 

"I  have  been  coming  to  the  City  for  nine 
years,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  learnt  a  great  deal. 
I  know  now  where  the  Tower  is,  and  which  of  the 
benches  under  the  trees  makes  you  feel  most 
Harrison  Ainsworthy.  And  I  know  the  shop  in 
Cornhill  that  sells  the  best  twopenny  tarts.  They 
are  small,  but  peerless." 

"If  you  hadn't  bought  my  verses  you  might 
have  had  another,"  sighed  Robert.  "Some  day, 
when  I  have  made  my  fortune,  I  shall  give  you 
one." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  you  know 
what  you  are  looking  at  across  the  road?" 

"I  am  looking  at  a  bookshop,"  replied  the  poet. 

"You  were  meant  to  see  the  JNIansion  House," 
demurred  his  guide,  "where  the  Lord  Mayor 
lives." 

"I  do  not  like  Lord  Mayors,"  said  Robert; 
"they  never  ask  me  to  their  literary  dinners." 

"They  are  punished  for  it,"  said  the  girl. 
"Once  a  year  at  midnight  they  drop  their  little. 


SM    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

glass  slippers,  and  their  beautiful  coach  turns 
back  into  a  pumpkin." 

"It  serves  them  right,"  said  the  poet  venge- 
fully. 

But  they  were  not  always  so  foolish  as  this. 
To  meet  at  luncheon  became  their  custom,  and 
sometimes  their  confidences  were  quite  practical. 
By  dint  of  lunching  hurriedly  on  occasion,  they 
made  time  to  reach  the  Tower  together,  and  he 
approved  her  taste  in  benches.  It  was  on  the 
bench  one  day  when  the  sun  shone  that  she  told 
him  her  history.  Her  history  was  so  common- 
place that  she  apologised  for  relating  it,  and  her 
surprise  was  vast  that  he  fell  to  reverie. 

"Why,"  he  cried,  "we  have  found  a  Moral! 
It  is  you  who  are  to  be  pitied,  not  I.  What  have 
I  to  mourn  in  the  City?  I  have  buried  nothing 
here  but  the  gift  of  making  little  verses.  But  you^ 
you  have  buried  the  divinest  gift  of  the  gods,  your 
beautiful  youth!  You  have  never  had  any 
pleasure  in  your  life,  yet  you  are  content.  I  am 
ashamed." 

Not  long  afterwards  his  preserver  exclaimed: 

"Bobbie,  I  think  you're  getting  acclimatised. 
You're  putting  your  back  into  it — if  you  don't 
i;ake  care  you'll  make  money !" 

"I  aim  at  making  money,"  said  the  poet  with 


THE  LADY  OF  LYONS'  325 

commercial  staidness;  and  added,  irresponsibly^ 
"I  want  to  buy  twopenny  tarts." 

It  was  just  like  him,  to  bid  farewell  to  verse- 
making,  and  then  to  find  his  best  poetry  in  the 
City.  There  are  dreamers  who  would  turn  every 
opportunity  to  disadvantage. 

But  the  iron  is  shaping  so  well  that  when  it 
becomes  a  limited  liability  company  with  another 
manager,  Robert's  slice  should  be  substantial. 

We  may  imagine  him  going  back  to  the  daffo- 
dils. 

It  is  not  impossible  that  there  will  be  orange 
blossoms. 

And  in  the  meantime  there  is  certainly  the 
luncheon  hour. 


THE  THIRD  M 

Otto  Van  Norden  wrote  ballads  that  were 
popular;  but  to  attain  this  eminence  he  had,  in 
his  youth,  sacrificed  commercial  prospects  which 
might  easily  have  provided  him  with  wealth.  So 
he  often  lamented  his  choice  of  a  career  as  a  ter- 
rible mistake.  Nevertheless,  as  he  had  some  pri- 
vate means,  his  life  was  no  martyrdom,  though 
he  aspired  vainly  to  a  mansion  and  a  motor.  He 
had  pleasant  rooms,  a  good  tailor,  was  frequently 
to  be  seen  at  the  second-best  restaurants,  and 
spent  as  much  of  his  time  as  possible  on  the  Con- 
tinent. It  was,  indeed.  Van  Norden  who  shocked 
the  owner  of  a  Confession-book  by  describing  his 
favourite  pastime  as  "Leaving  England,"  and 
his  pet  aversion  as  "Coming  back  to  it." 

At  the  age  of  forty  he  fell  seriously  in  love.  He 
w^as  a  selfish  man,  though  he  inclined  to  lyrics 
like  "Heaven  were  a  Void  without  Thee,"  and 
"My  Life  for  My  Lady's  Glove,"  and  he  battled 
against  the  temptation  bravely.  Violet  was 
young,  captivating,  and  sang  his  ballads  with 
considerable  expression — he  had  really  no  chance. 
He  took  a  wife,  and  a  villa  in  Dulwich ;  and  if  the 

326 


THE  THIRD  M  327 

music  pirates  hadn't  begun  to  be  so  industrious, 
it  is  possible  that  he  might  have  escaped  regret, 
even  in  the  suburb  that  looks  like  a  cemetery. 

To  write  popular  songs  in  a  country  where 
stolen  music  was  exposed  for  sale  on  every  kerb- 
stone buttered  no  parsnips;  and  for  matrimony 
the  composer's  private  means  were  a  tight  fit. 
Not  many  quarter-days  had  elapsed  before  he  felt 
that  his  marriage  had  been  as  big  a  blunder  as  his 
profession.  "Music  and  marriage!"  sighed  Van 
Norden  to  the  long,  sad,  empty  roads  of  Dul- 
wich;  "but  for  music  and  marriage  how  well  off 
I  might  have  been!"  And  then  it  struck  him 
that  both  the  calamities  of  his  life  begun  with 
an  M. 

Some  men  might  have  attached  no  importance 
to  it ;  Otto  Van  Norden  was  impressed.  He  said 
that  it  was  queer,  this  recurrence  of  the  initial  M 
— he  was  of  the  opinion  that  it  "meant  some- 
thing." Perhaps  there  was  a  warning  to  be  de- 
rived? Yes,  that  must  be  it!  If  a  third  catastro- 
phe occurred,  doubtless  the  third,  too,  would  be 
alliterative — and  perhaps  fatal.  M  was  evidently 
an  initial  ominous  to  him,  an  initial  to  be  shunned. 
From  that  moment  he  grew  nervous  of  things  be- 
ginning with  an  M.  He  abandoned  the  wish  to 
revisit  Mentone;  and  he  would  not  have  attempt- 
ed a  march  if  his  publishers  had  begged  for  one. 


S28    THE  MAN  WHO  U>:DERST00D  WOMEN 

More  quarter-days  flashed  by,  and  meanwhile 
his  fortunes  remained  unchanged.  Self-respect- 
ing citizens  still  bought  the  stolen  music,  the  pri- 
vate income  was  still  a  tight  fit,  and  Dulwich  was 
still  the  most  melancholy  of  the  suburbs.  Then, 
when  he  had  been  married  for  three  annual  rent- 
als, and  a  water-rate  over,  hopes  were  entertained 
of  a  son  and  heir — and  Violet  suggested  calling 
him  "Marmaduke."  The  composer  was  pro- 
foundly agitated;  her  proposal  was  no  caprice — 
she  had  an  uncle  Marmaduke  with  money — and 
Van  Norden  knew  very  well  that  opposition  must 
appear  to  her  unreasonable,  since  he  could  not 
explain  it  without  hurting  her  feelings. 

He  contested  the  point  with  tact.  Kindly,  but 
firmly,  he  disparaged  the  name  of  "Marmaduke" 
for  months,  all  through  the  spring  in  fact.  It 
was  a  name,  he  pointed  out,  more  adapted  to  an 
elderly  gentleman  of  portly  presence  than  to  a 
baby.  It  was  not  a  tractable  name,  not  amenable 
to  abbreviation.  Assuming  that  the  child  had  a 
sensitive  disposition,  Violet  would  condemn  him 
to  years  of  suff'ering,  for  a  boy  who  was  christ- 
ened "Marmaduke"  would,  when  he  went  to 
school,  certainly  be  called  "Marmalade."  The 
last  argument  was  at  once  successful;  Violet's 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  as  she  thanked  her  hus- 
band for  sparing  the  "poor  little  fellow"  the  con- 


THE  THIRD  M  329 

sequences  of  her  thoughtlessness,  the  composer's 
rehef  was  deeper  than  any  who  mock  presenti- 
ments can  understand. 

This  was  the  first  M  that  had  menaced  him 
since  he  perceived  the  significance  of  the  initial 
to  him,  and  nothing  else  noteworthy  occurred 
until  November.  One  day  in  November  when  a 
pink-and-white  bassinette  was  in  readiness  for 
the  little  "fellow's"  advent,  the  master  of  the 
house  awoke  feeling  as  if  he  had  a  marble  under 
his  tongue.  He  did  not  mention  the  matter  to 
Violet,  but  breakfasting  with  such  an  unfamiliar 
mouth  was  so  discomforting  that  he  sent  the  serv- 
ant up  to  Dr.  Lachlan  with  a  request  to  him  to 
look  in  during  the  morning. 

"I  don't  know  what's  happened  to  my  mouth, 
Lachlan,"  he  said;  "it's  for  all  the  world  as  if  a 
marble  had  rolled  underneath  my  tongue  in  the 
night." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  it,"  said  the  medical  man. 
"Ah !  Yes.  Y-e-s,  that  hasn't  come  in  the  night 
— it's  been  coming  for  some  time." 

"Is  it  serious?" 

"No,  not  necessarily.    It  wants  removing." 

"Removing?"  echoed  Van  Norden.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  'removing' — you  don't  mean  'op- 
erating'?    Don't   you   think   a — a  good   lotion 


330   THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Oh,  no,  we  shall  have  to  operate,"  said  Dr. 
Lachlan.  "You  may  put  it  at  the  morning  after 
next.  Meantime,  I'll  get  a  competent  anaesthet- 
ist, and  arrange  about  a  nurse  for  you." 

"But — but  it's  very  serious  indeed,"  faltered 
the  composer,  dismayed.  "Am  I  sure  to  get  bet- 
ter? People  sink  under  operations;  we  know 
that  every  operation  is  'performed  successfully,' 
but  the  patient  often  dies  the  same  day.  What's 
the  matter  with  me,  what  have  I  got?" 

"It's  what  we  call  'Myxoma.'  " 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  Van  Norden.  "It  be- 
gins with  an  M !" 

He  was  now  intensely  alarmed  for  himself.  He 
was  also  alarmed  lest  the  news  should  reach  the 
ears  of  Violet,  who  was  in  no  condition  to  be  told 
such  things.  However,  on  the  next  morning  but 
one  she  was  unable  to  rise,  so  the  preliminaries 
passed  unnoticed  by  her.  In  a  room  on  the  first 
floor,  madame  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  son  and 
heir;  in  a  room  on  the  second,  monsieur  awaited 
the  arrival  of  the  surgeon.  Few  circumstances 
could  have  been  more  adverse  to  marital  tranquil- 
lity :  few  circumstances  therefore  could  have  been 
less  favourable  to  the  operation. 

The  first  person  to  tap  at  the  second-floor  door 
was  the  nurse  engaged  by  Dr.  Lachlan. 

"Good-morning,   Nurse,"  said  Van  Norden. 


THE  THIRD  M  331 

* 'Nobody  has  come  yet ;  sit  down  and  make  your- 
self at  home." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  nurse.  She  added  sym- 
pathetically, putting  on  her  apron.  "It's  a  try- 
ing time  for  you,  I  hear,  what  with  one  thing  and 
another,  sir?" 

Lachlan  came  in,  as  blithely  as  if  it  were  a 
party.  "Well,  how  are  we  this  morning?"  he 
asked.  "Good  spirits?  That's  right!  You'll  be 
glad  you've  had  this  done — you'll  feel  much  bet- 
ter, once  it's  over. — Ah,  here's  the  man  I'm  wait- 
ing for!     '^lorning,  Major." 

"Er,  Dr.  3Iajor,  pleased  to  meet  you,"  mur- 
mured the  composer,  feebly  untruthful.  Already 
the  bedroom  was  taking  a  strange  aspect  to  him, 
the  aspect  of  a  hospital.  Bandages  and  bottles 
seemed  to  have  sprung  from  nowhere.  Lachlan 
poured  fluids  briskly  in  basins  before  the  window, 
and  JNIajor  set  out  mysterious  articles  from  a 
black  bag  on  the  chest  of  drawers.  The  para- 
phernalia spread  incessantly,  and  the  nurse  con- 
tinued, as  if  by  magic,  to  produce  sheets,  and  cans 
of  hot  water  without  having  quitted  the  room. 

"I  think  we'll  move  the  bed.  Nurse,"  said  Lach- 
lan, and  they  pulled  it  into  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  The  ansesthetist  felt  the  patient's  pulse, 
and  applied  the  stethoscope;  and  Van  Norden 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the  pattern  of  the 


332    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

wall-paper  resembled  pink  mushrooms  in  bunches 
of  vermicelli. 

An  oppressive  *'tent"  was  placed  over  his 
mouth.  He  felt  very  helpless,  very  childish  all 
at  once.  The  vapom*  of  the  "A.C.E."  grew  suf- 
focating; his  heart  began  to  thump  as  if  it  would 
burst.  He  signalled  the  danger  to  Lachlan,  and 
Lachlan  gave  a  nod.  Van  Norden  glared  im- 
potently — he  was  sure  that  he  was  the  victim  of 
a  blunder,  that  this  pounding  of  the  heart  was  too 
violent  to  be  safe.  Now  there  was  a  roaring  in  liis 
ears.  The  idiots  were  killing  him — and  he  was 
gagged,  defenceless !  Momentarily  he  was  faint 
with  terror,  and  then  a  lethargy  which  he  mis- 
took for  courage  stole  through  him;  it  flattered 
his  vanity  to  perceive  with  what  listlessness  he 
confronted  death.  He  was  being  a  hero!  .  .  . 
It  was  not  unpleasant — it  didn't  matter.  Noth- 
ing mattered.    Nothing  mattered  in  the  least. 

His  next  impression  was  of  being  very 
cramped.  In  the  mist  of  his  consciousness  there 
lurked  the  remembrance  of  the  operation,  and  he 
assumed  vaguely  that  it  was  over.  He  lay  wait- 
ing to  be  congratulated,  wondering  why  nobody 
spoke  to  him.  Had  he  been  left  alone  ?  He  felt 
so  bewilderingly  limp  that  he  couldn't  turn,  but 
he  opened  his  mouth  to  say,  "Are  you  there, 
Lachlan?"  and  to  his  horror,  emitted  nothing  but 


THE  THIRD  M  333 

a  baby's  bleat.  His  mouth  remained  open  with 
amazement,  and  gigantic  fingers  suddenly  thrust 
something  sickening  into  it,  while  an  unfamiliar 
voice  made  ridiculous  noises  at  him. 

Consternation  held  Van  Norden  spellbound. 
There  were  seconds  in  which  he  feared  that  he 
was  insane.  Presently  another  thought  assailed 
him,  one  so  startling  that  his  blood  ran  cold.  Min- 
utes passed,  minutes  too  terrible  for  words  to 
paint.  He  gathered  the  fortitude  to  examine  as 
much  of  his  person  as  was  exposed:  the  hands 
belonging  to  him  were  minute,  the  hands  of  an 
infant!  He  stared  at  them  aghast  and  shudder- 
ing. There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it — he  had  died 
under  the  operation,  and  had  been  born  again! 
All  that  was  natural  enough,  but  the  unforeseen 
and  fearful  thing  was  that  he  still  remembered. 

He  was  once  more  a  baby.  Whose  ?  The  im- 
mense import  of  the  question  throbbed  in  him. 
Where  he  lay  he  could  see  no  more  of  the  room 
than  the  ceihng,  and  he  was  unable  to  judge 
whether  he  had  been  reincarnated  in  a  mansion  or 
a  hovel.  There  had  been  a  royal  princess  ex- 
pecting a  baby,  he  reflected.  "Great  Scotland 
Yard!"  thought  Van  Norden,  "suppose  I'm  Roy- 
alty this  time?"  But  the  remaining  pessimism  in 
him  rejected  the  fancy  almost  as  it  rose.  "Too 
good  to  be  true,"  he  mused;  "I  expect  my  fa- 


334    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

ther's  a  beggarly  artist,  or  a  curate — I  don't  sup- 
pose I'm  even  an  only  child.  It's  a  ghastly  situa- 
tion— I  wonder  at  what  age  one  begins  to  for- 
get?" 

The  woman  with  the  gigantic  fingers — or  fin- 
gers comparatively  gigantic — was  speaking  to 
someone  now,  and  Van  Norden  listened  intently, 
in  the  hope  of  ascertaining  something  of  his  pros- 
pects. 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman,  "and  her,  too,  poor 
soul — don't  know  anything  about  it  yet  of  course ! 
They  won't  tell  her  for  days.  He  died  a  moment 
before  the  mite  was  born.  Wrote  songs  and  such 
like.  Yes,  they  say  the  operation  w^as  quite  suc- 
cessful, but  he  didn't  rally — too  weak,  you  know. 
Oh,  awfully  sad!" 

"Grant  me  patience!"  thought  Van  Norden; 
"I  might  have  known  it — I'm  in  that  damned 
house  in  Dulwich  still!" 

"A  quiet  little  thing,  poor  orphan,  ain't  it?" 
the  monthly  nurse  went  on;  and  then  she  leant 
over  the  cradle  and  made  the  ridiculous  noise  at 
him  again.  In  a  burst  of  fury,  Van  Norden  tried 
to  swear  at  her,  but  he  could  produce  only  the 
baby's  bleat.  He  yearned  to  be  quiet,  to  be  left 
undisturbed — there  was  so  much  to  consider.  He 
had  allowed  his  life-policy  to  lapse,  and  now  he 
bitterly  repented  the  false  economy.     He  won- 


THE  THIRD  M  335 

dered  what  the  furniture  would  fetch,  and  if  Vio- 
let would  be  enabled  to  bring  him  up  properly. 
Perhaps  his  father-in-law  would  come  to  her  as- 
sistance?— his  "grandfather,"  he  ought  to  say 
now!  It  would  be  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish  if  his 
widow — that  was  to  say  his  "mother" — were  left 
to  her  own  resources.  What  would  become  of 
him?  A  board  school,  and  a  junior  clerkship! 
"I  suppose  it's  entirely  problematical  whether  I 
shall  even  inherit  my  musical  talent?"  mused  the 
unhappy  infant.  "It's  a  nice  lookout  for  me,  I 
must  say!" 

"But  there,"  added  the  woman,  "a  girl  baby 
always  does  keep  quieter  than  a  boy — I'm  always 
thankful  to  see  it  a  girl.  Ookytooky,  then!  Ain't 
I,  my  precious?  Lor,  the  blessed  lamb's  chok- 
ing!" 

Van  Norden  had  indeed  turned  purple  in  the 
face.  A  girl!  Culminating  calamity,  a  girl!  The 
blankness  of  the  girl's  outlook,  the  poverty  of  the 
marriage  that  she  must  expect  to  make,  was  over- 
whelming. "Now,  why,"  Van  Norden  asked 
herself  passionately,  ^'why  has  this  thing  hap- 
pened to  me?  Among  all  the  births  that  were 
taking  place  in  the  world,  couldn't  they  have 
spared  me  a  decent  one  ?  I  don't  harp  on  a  pal- 
ace, but,  say,  reasonable  advantages?  Opulent 
people  are  having  sons  every  minute,  yet  I  must 


336    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

go  as  the  daughter  of  a  widow  in  straitened  cir- 
cumstances.    Upon  my  soul,  it's  heartrending!" 

However,  when  she  and  Violet  met  again  she 
was  somewhat  consoled  by  the  warmth  of  her 
mother's  welcome ;  and  after  the  news  of  the  be- 
reavement was  broken,  the  young  widow  cooed 
so  tenderly  of  the  manifold  virtues  of  "darling 
papa"  that  Van  Norden  was  quite  touched.  "A 
good  sort!"  meditated  Van  Norden,  as  Violet 
joggled  her  up  and  down;  "I  had  no  idea  at  the 
time  that  she  appreciated  me  so  much." 

In  hours  of  comparative  resignation  there  was 
nothing  more  fascinating  to  Van  Norden,  while 
she  lay  in  the  pink-and-white  bassinette,  than  to 
mark  the  development  of  her  new  identity — the 
process  by  which  the  trivial  pains  and  pleasures 
of  the  moment  attained  supreme  importance,  and 
the  pressing  anxieties  which  beset  her  at  the  hour 
of  her  birth  became  gradually  blurred.  The  fact 
would  have  appeared  incredible  to  the  baby  for- 
merly had  she  heard  with  how  little  fret  and  jar 
the  human  mind  adapted  itself  to  another  form 
and  sex;  she  would  not  have  believed  the  Ego 
could  renounce  so  easily  its  interest  in  matters 
that,  to  its  previous  incarnation,  had  been  absorb- 
ing. And  doubtless,  she  reflected,  she  would  dis- 
believe it  again  later! 

Her  attitude  towards  the  bottle,  for  instance, 


THE  THIRD  M  33T 

fascinated  her  extremely.  At  first  she  had  re- 
garded it  with  disdain.  Even  when  she  recog- 
nised its  suitability  to  her  physical  needs,  she  had 
merely  tolerated  the  thing  as  a  disagreeable  ne- 
cessity. This  contempt,  this  suction  under  pro- 
test, was  very  brief.  Soon  she  grew  to  relish  the 
bottle,  to  clamour  for  it  when  it  was  late.  Then, 
too,  she  was  able  to  extract  amusement  from  a 
coral-and-bells,  and  was  again  engrossed  by  the 
ticking  of  a  watch.  "Marvellous!"  thought  Van 
Norden,  while  she  hovered  at  the  parting  of  the 
ways,  "marvellous  thing,  Nature,  upon  my 
word!"  But,  a  trifle  humiliated  at  moments  like 
these,  she  would  throw  the  coral,  or  watch,  on  the 
floor  and  set  up  a  howl.  The  devoted  Violet  often 
mistook  the  humiliation  for  a  pin,  and  undressed 
her — an  indignity  which  annoyed  Van  Norden 
more  still. 

Before  she  was  six  weeks  old  Van  Norden  had 
ceased  to  consider  the  financial  position,  and  ac- 
cepted without  questioning  who  provided ;  she  be- 
gan to  yield  to  the  charm  of  the  bottle  and  the 
watch  unreservedly,  and  had  scarcely  a  remaining 
care.  Only  while  she  plucked  at  Violet's  crape, 
the  past  whispered  in  her,  and  a  dim  conscious- 
ness that  the  relations  between  her  mother  and 
herself  were  involved  clouded  the  infantile  brow. 

"What's  she  thinking  about,  a  love?"  Violet 


338    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

would  murmur,  swaying  her  to  and  fro.  "Doesn't 
she  look  worried,  a  pet!"  And  from  the  lap  that 
was  once  Van  Norden's  wife's,  Van  Norden 
would  raise  great  eyes  to  her  solemnly. 

When  eight  or  nine  months  had  passed,  this 
glimmer  of  memory,  which  had  then  become  near- 
ly extinct,  was  fanned  to  ardour  by  a  painful  cir- 
cumstance. They  had  gone  to  Dieppe  with  Vio- 
let's parents,  and  in  the  hotel  Violet  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  Major  somebody.  The  ac- 
quaintance had  progressed  when  Van  Norden 
was  first  brought  in  contact  with  him  in  the  gar- 
den, and  the  gentleman  paid  the  pretty  widow 
marked  attentions,  and  grinned  at  her  baby  pro- 
pitiatingly. 

"Jolly  little  chap,"  remarked  the  Major,  wor- 
rying Van  Norden  with  a  forefinger. 

"It's  a  little  girl,  Major,"  said  Violet,  smiling 
reproval. 

"Oh,  confound  it  all!  I  mean  how  stupid  of 
me!"  faltered  the  Major.  "Lovely  little  thing, 
anyhow.  I  suppose  you're  awfully  proud  of  her, 
Mrs.  Van  Norden,  eh?  The  only  pebble  on  the 
beach,  what?  It  seems  awfully  rum  to  see  you 
with  a  baby  though — you  look  such  a  girl,  don't 
you  know." 

"What  nonsense!"  said  Violet,  blushing;  "I'm 
an  elderly  woman  if  one  counts  one's  age  by  one's 


THE  THIRD  M  339 

troubles."  She  glanced  significantly  at  her  weeds, 
and  sighed. 

"Oh,  ah,  of  course  I  understand;  I — I  can  sym- 
pathise, I  can  indeed.  But  you  shouldn't  think 
of  your  troubles  too  much,  Mrs.  Van  Norden,  if 
I  may  say  so — you  should  buck  up.    Life,  after 

all,  is "    He  struggled  with  his  ej^eglass  and 

failed  to  enunciate  his  sentiments  on  life. 

"Life  is  very,  very  strange,"  said  Violet,  gaz- 
ing pensively  at  the  sea. 

"Isn't  it?"  said  the  Major  eagerly.  "Just 
fancy,  it's  only  a  week  since  I  met  you,  what?" 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  she  murmured. 

"J  am,"  said  the  Major,  "I  think  of  it  lots.  It 
seems  so  rum,  don't  you  know,  that  I'd  never  seen 
you  till  a  week  ago.  Don't  you  think  that  some- 
times people  meet  who  were  meant  to  meet,  and 
that,  for  them,  a  week  scores  more  than  years  and 
years  of  society  between  people  who  er — well, 
who  only  happen  to  meet  because  they're  intro- 
duced, don't  you  know?" 

Van  Norden  lay  communing  with  herself.  In 
the  little  brain  the  voice  of  the  past  cried  for  rec- 
ognition. She  eyed  the  adults  darkly,  agitated 
by  the  sense  of  a  tragedy  which  she  sought  pite- 
ously  to  define.  The  soul  of  the  baby  sprawling 
on  the  cushions  was  sympto  natic  of  marital  jeal- 
ousy, though  the  mind  failed  to  diagnose  the  dis- 


S40    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

ease.  Distressed  and  puzzled,  Van  Norden  burst 
into  startling  screams,  and  kicked  her  little  limbs 
about  furiously.  Violet  was  unable  to  pacify  her ; 
and,  much  alarmed,  was  about  to  dispatch  the 
Major  for  the  nurse  when,  through  the  windows 
of  the  salon,  came  the  prelude  to  a  song,  and 
someone  began  to  sing  "Heaven  were  a  Void 
without  Thee."  The  baby's  paroxysm  ceased  al- 
most at  once ;  her  gaze  grew  wide.  Striking  her 
ear  when  it  did,  the  ballad  that  she  had  created  in 
ber  preceding  incarnation  revivified  her  conscious- 
ness of  the  former  life.  The  veil  was  rent;  the 
female  infant  was  at  heart  a  husband — and  look- 
ing in  the  faces  of  Violet  and  her  new  lover.  Van 
Norden  remembered  all. 

She  could  say  nothing — speech  was  not  yet 
granted  to  her — could  not  proclaim,  "I  am  Otto," 
though  she  beheld  her  widow  wooed  by  another 
man.  Life  holds  no  moment  more  terrible  than 
an  experience  like  this.  Nor  did  her  agony  fade 
with  her  banishment  from  the  scene.  On  the  con- 
trary, her  helplessness  intensified  her  sufferings; 
too  young  as  yet  to  toddle,  incapable  of  intruding 
where  she  wished,  Van  Norden  was  constantly 
racked  by  tortures  of  the  imagination.  Consumed 
with  jealousy,  and  craving  to  be  in  the  salon,  she 
was  compelled  to  lie  fuming  in  her  cot — or  was 
strapped  in  her  perambulator  while  her  frenzied 


THE  THIRD  M  341 

fancy  followed  Violet  and  the  Major  into  the 
Casino. 

Soon  she  employed  the  only  weapon  in  her 
power,  and  kicked  and  screamed  as  often  as  an 
attempt  was  made  to  remove  her  from  Violet's 
presence.  By  this  means  she  witnessed  much  that 
would  otherwise  have  been  hidden  from  her — 
was  indeed  a  witness  of  her  successor's  proposal. 
Stricken  with  resentment,  the  babe  that  had  once 
been  the  widow's  husband  lay  in  her  lap  while  the 
Major  begged  her  to  be  his  wife. 

"I  know  it's  a  bit  early  for  me  to  speak,"  he 
stammered,  "but  I  can't  help  it — if  I  were  to  let 
you  go  away  without  telling  you  how  much  I  care 
for  you,  I  might  never  see  you  again.  Only  give 
me  a  word — I'll  wait.  I'll  be  as  patient  as  I  can, 
but  tell  me  that  there's  a  chance  for  me." 

She  was  silent  a  long  while ;  evidently  she  was 
much  moved.  At  last  she  murmured,  "I  don't 
know  what  to  say." 

"Can't  vou  care  a  bit  for  me?" 

"Ah,  it  isn't  that!"  she  owned  tearfully. 

"Darling!    Dearest!" 

"Sh!"  she  said,  "you  oughtn't.  It's  so  soon; 
and — oh,  I  don't  know,  there's  so  much  to  consid- 
er. There's  my  child."  She  clasped  Van  Nor- 
den  protectively. 

"You  don't  suppose  I'd  be  rough  on  it?"  cried 


S42    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

the  Major.  "Why,  I  give  you  my  word — just 
as  if  it  were  my  own.  Violet,  in  a  few  months' 
time?  Will  you  marry  me  in  a  few  months' 
time?" 

He  leant  lower,  and  she  raised  her  gaze;  the 
next  instant  they  had  kissed  across  Van  Norden's 
head.  All  the  rekindled  manliood  in  the  infant's 
consciousness  flamed  to  avenge  the  outrage, 
burned  to  strike  the  supplanter  down,  to  destroy 
him.  The  disparity  between  the  virile  impulse 
and  the  tiny  frame  was  maddening.  Purpling 
with  shame  and  indignation,  Van  Norden  reared 
to  spit  at  him,  but  could  only  dribble. 

The  human  brain  at  the  age  of  nine  months  is 
incapable  of  supporting  a  strain  of  this  degree. 
Soon  afterwards  Violet  had  to  send  in  hot  haste 
for  a  medical  man.  After  an  examination,  he 
spoke  gravely  of  removing  something. 

"  'Removing'  something?  You  don't  mean 
^operating' ?" 

"Yes,  w^e  shall  have  to  operate,"  answered  the 
doctor. 

There  was  a  morning  when  a  hospital  nurse 
came  to  the  cot,  putting  on  an  apron,  and  the 
surgeon  followed.  Violet  and  the  Major  were 
present,  the  Major  soothing  her. 

"I  think  we'll  move  the  bed,"  said  the  surgeon; 


THE  THIRD  M  343 

and  Van  Norden  lay  staring  through  the  window 
at  the  brilHant  sky. 

The  room  began  to  acquire  a  novel  air.  The 
nurse  produced  sheets  and  cans  of  hot  water  from 
nowhere;  the  surgeon  poured  fluids  in  basins 
briskly.  The  INIajor  set  out  mysterious  articles 
from  a  black  bag  on  the  chest  of  drawers.  The 
sky  developed  a  pattern  of  pink  mushrooms  and 
bunches  of  vermicelli — and  Van  Norden  came  to 
his  senses. 

He  saw  Lachlan  looking  at  him. 

"Well,  how  do  you  feel?"  asked  Lachlan. 
"We've  got  rid  of  your  Myxoma  for  you.  And 
your  wife's  first-rate.  You've  a  little  son  waiting 
downstairs — fine  boy,  too!" 

"Fine  boy?"  murmured  the  composer  drowsily. 
"No,  I  was  a  fine  girl.'* 

"Not  quite  come  round  yet.  Nurse,"  said 
Lachlan;  "let  him  sleep  the  rest  of  it  off,  and 
he'll  be  as  right  as  rain!" 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY 


The  Bishop  of  Westborough  had  seldom 
found  himself  in  a  more  delicate  position.  Since 
Sweetbay  objected  so  strenuously  to  its  rector 
being  a  dramatist,  Sweetbay  was  clearly  no  place 
for  the  rector;  and  it  devolved  upon  his  lordship 
to  intimate  the  fact.  But  secretly  his  lordship 
was  also  guilty  of  dramatic  authorship,  and  in- 
stalments of  his  comedy  were  even  now  in  the 
hands  of  that  accomphshed  actress.  Miss  Kitty 
Clarges.  For  this  reason,  and  another,  the  Bish- 
op had  wakeful  nights. 

However,  he  did  what  was  required.  With  all 
his  customary  blandness,  and  perhaps  a  shade 
more,  he  pointed  out  to  the  Rev.  Baker  Barling 
that  the  parish  of  Sweetbay  was  unsuitable  for 
him,  and  offered  him  instead  a  living  which  com- 
mended itself  to  the  Barlings  not  at  all.  Indeed, 
Mrs.  Baker  Barling  was  so  highly  incensed  by 
the  removal,  that  the  rector  had  on  several  occa- 
sions to  say  "My  dear!"  to  her  reprovingly. 

The  Bishop  was  young  for  a  bishop.     His 

344 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  345 

classical  features,  and  the  dignity  of  his  carriage, 
would  have  compelled  attention  even  if  he  had 
been  a  mere  man.  He  never  said  anything  note- 
worthy, but  he  voiced  the  sentiments  of  the  un- 
thinking in  stately  language.  This  made  him 
generally  admired.  It  is  not  to  be  inferred  that 
he  was  insincere — he  had  been  granted  a  popular 
mind ;  he  shared  with  the  ma j  ority  a  strong  aver- 
sion from  disagreeable  truths.  His  widest  re- 
flections were  bounded  by  the  word  "Unpleas- 
ant," and  every  truth  that  was  unpleasant  was  to 
the  Bishop  of  Westborough  "one  of  those  things 
that  are  better  left  undiscussed."  He  had  a  warm 
affection  for  this  phrase,  which  occurred  in  all  his 
articles  for  the  cultured  reviews.  It  was  a  phrase 
that  suggested  much  earnestness  of  thought, 
while  it  spared  him  the  exertion  of  thinking  at 
all. 

Domestically  he  had  been  no  less  fortunate 
than  in  his  mental  limitations.  He  possessed  a 
little  wife,  who  listened  to  him  with  the  utmost 
patience,  and  he  had  seen  both  his  girls  make 
brilliant  matches  in  their  first  season.  The  his- 
tory of  the  bridegroom  had,  in  each  case,  been 
"one  of  those  things  that  are  better  left  undis- 
cussed." Accordingly,  the  Bishop  boasted  a 
grateful  heart;  in  fact  when  he  reflected  how 
abundantly  Providence  had  blessed  him,  he  was 


346    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

more  than  normally  horrified  to  think  of  the  im- 
pious murmiirings  of  the  poor. 

That  a  personage  of  his  environment  and  dis- 
position had  been  tempted  towards  so  unepisco- 
pal  a  course  as  writing  a  comedy,  proves  how  true 
it  is  that  nothing  happens  but  the  unforeseen.  It 
was  one  of  the  speediest  conquests  of  Miss 
Clarges'  career — a  career  in  which  peers  had  been 
'  plentiful,  but  prelates  had  hitherto  been  lacking. 
He  had  made  her  acquaintance  at  a  reception — 
she  was  clever  off  the  stage  as  well  as  on  it  and 
had  always  tempered  her  indiscretions  with  tact ; 
duchesses  called  her  "dear."  He  thought  her  the 
most  fascinating  woman  he  had  ever  met,  and 
talked  to  her  about  the  conditions  of  the  Enghsh 
stage  with  considerable  satisfaction  to  himself. 

"What  a  dramatist  your  lordship  would  have 
made  if  you  had  not  been  a  bishop!"  she  mur- 
mured, with  rapt  eyes. 

"Oh — er — you  are  jesting,"  said  the  Bishop, 
asking  for  more. 

"No,  indeed — I  mean  it,"  returned  the  lady 
reverently.  "You  have  what  we  call  the  'sense 
of  the  theatre.'  And  it  is  so  rare!  You  startled 
me  just  now — you  know  by  intuition  things  that 
the  professional  dramatist  needs  years  of  experi- 
ence to  find  out.    I  can't  tell  you  how  extraordin- 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  347 

ary  it  is!"  She  regarded  him  as  if  she  were  be- 
ing confronted  by  a  miracle. 

Partly  because  he  was  very  vain,  and  partly  be- 
cause Miss  Clarges  was  very  good-looking,  the 
lie  that  she  forgot  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  spoken 
had  hngered  caressingly  with  the  Bishop.  Sitting 
in  the  Palace  one  afternoon  with  nothing  to  do, 
he  found  himself  scribbling  "Act  I. — A  Draw- 
ing Room."  He  had  no  definite  intention  of  con- 
tinuing, still  less  had  he  a  definite  plot;  but  like 
everyone  who  is  deficient  in  self-criticism,  he 
wrote  with  prodigious  facility,  and  his  first  act 
was  finished  in  a  few  days. 

Miss  Clarges  had  been  a  good  deal  surprised 
to  receive  a  semi-humorous  note  from  the  Bishop 
of  Westborough,  reminding  her  of  their  conver- 
sation and  hinting  that  he  would  be  glad  to  have 
her  opinion  of  "a  dramatic  bantling."  Tea  and 
a  tete-a-tete  followed  in  the  lady's  boudoir.  She 
found  Act  I  all  that  she  had  dreaded,  and  told 
him  it  was  most  original.  Beaming  with  impor- 
tance, he  perpetrated  Act  II,  and  read  her  that. 
She  was  contemplating  a  season  of  management, 
and  in  sanguine  moments  reflected  that  a  prac- 
tised hand  might  knock  the  Bishop's  comedy  into 
something  like  shape,  and  that  the  Bishop's  name 
on  the  bills  would  be  well  worth  having.  So  she 
offered  various  suggestions   about  the  leading 


848    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

part,  and  was  at  home  as  often  as  he  chose  to 
call — and  for  some  weeks  he  had  chosen  to  call 
very  often  indeed. 

Remember  that  he  was  only  fifty.  He  had 
married  when  he  was  twenty-five,  married  a  girl 
who  was  taken  by  his  handsome  face,  and  who 
brought  him  a  very  respectable  dower.  Though 
the  dower  had  fascinated  him  more  than  the  girl, 
the  courtship  had  comprised  his  sentimental  ex- 
periences. As  has  been  said,  he  had  had  no  rea- 
son to  complain  of  his  choice — he  had  been  re- 
markably successful  in  all  his  relationships — ^he 
felt  that  his  wife  worshipped  him,  and  her  wor- 
ship, and  his  worldly  progress,  had  contented  him 
fully.  But  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  career,  he 
was  thrown  into  intimate  association  with  a  wom- 
an who  had  captivated  those  who  were  seeing  life, 
and  those  who  had  seen  it — and  the  Bishop  of 
Westborough  fell  in  love  with  her  as  violently  as 
many  wiser  men  had  done  before  him. 

As  for  her,  it  was  the  first  time  in  the  woman's 
career  that  she  had  been  openly  admired  by  a 
bishop.  At  the  beginning  she  was  attracted  by 
his  reputation — much  as  her  youngest  adorers 
had  been  attracted  by  her  own — but  presently 
she  was  attracted  by  his  homage.  He  appealed  to 
her  one  weakness,  her  vanity.  Though  she 
thought  it  a  pity  that  he  wanted  to  write  a  com- 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  349 

edy,  she  considered  him  a  great  man;  his  pro- 
found belief  in  himself,  supported  by  a  nation's 
esteem,  imposed  on  her.  To  have  made  a  con- 
quest of  a  pillar  of  the  Church  flattered  her  inor- 
dinately; the  novelty  of  the  situation  had  its  ef- 
fect on  the  actress,  too — and,  to  her  unspeakable 
amazement,  Kitty  Clarges  fell  in  love  with  the 
Bishop. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  circumstances  had 
forced  him  to  mortify  the  rector  of  Sweetbay. 

"The  affair  makes  me  doubt  whether  I  ought 
to  proceed  with  my  own  play,"  he  admitted  to 
her  one  afternoon. 

"My  dear  friend!"  She  meant  "What  rot!" 
but  she  no  longer  said  "What  rot!"  even  to  other 
actresses ;  and  she  wore  dove-coloured  gowns,  and 
had  been  to  hear  him  preach.  The  higher  life 
was  a  little  trying,  but  she  liked  to  feel  worthier 
of  him. 

"My  action  in  the  matter  may  be  misconstrued. 
Of  course,  I've  simply  deferred  to  the  local  preju- 
dice, but  it  may  be  thought  that  /  disapprove  of 
the  man's  tendencies.  If  I  figured  as  a  dramatist 
myself  a  little  later,  I  might  be  placed  in  an  am- 
biguous position.  .  .  .  Perhaps  we  might  over- 
come the  difficulty  by  a  pseudonym?" 

She  looked  blank.    "Your  lordship's  name  wiU 


350    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

be  a  draw;  I'm  afraid  a  pseudonym  would  mean 
waiving  a  great  deal." 

"Financially?  The  pecuniary  result  is  not  im- 
portant to  me." 

But  it  was  important  to  her.  "If  the  secret 
were  really  kept,  you'd  be  waiving  all  the  kudos 
too,"  she  added. 

"Well,  we  must  consider,"  said  the  Bishop, 
clinking  the  ice  in  his  glass;  "you  shall  advise 
me — though  I  fear  I'm  exceeding  an  author's 
privileges.  By  the  way,  does  the  manageress  al- 
ways offer  the  author  a  whisky-and-soda?" 

"She  offered  you  an  alternative,"  said  Miss 
Clarges,  laughing;  "the  whisky-and-soda  was 
your  choice.  But  you  don't  really  mean  to  throw 
the  comedy  up,  do  you?    Think  of  poor  me!" 

The  Bishop's  eyes  were  eloquent.  "Thinking 
of  you,"  he  said,  after  a  lingering  gaze,  "I  have 
this  to  say:  you  will  be  put  to  considerable  ex- 
pense in  bringing  out  my  work,  and,  novice  as  I 
am,  I'm  aware  that  a  theatre  is  a  heavy  specula- 
tion; if  I  withhold  the  advantage  of  my  name 
from  the  piece,  I  shall  claim  to  share  your  risk." 

"You  are  very  generous,  dear  friend;  I  don't 
think  I  could  say  'yes'  to  that." 

"It  is  no  more  than  fair." 
"I'd  rather  not.     I — I  shouldn't  care  for  you 
to  find  money  for  me!"  said  Kitty  Clarges — and 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  351 

was  conscious  that  she  had  soared  into  the  higher 
hfe  indeed. 

"You  are  scarcely  treating  me  as  the  dear 
friend  you  allow  me  to  believe  myself,"  urged  the 
Bishop,  missing  the  greatest  compliment  of  his 
life. 

"Oh!"  she  said  under  her  breath. 

"I  should  be  serving  my  own  ends.  And  be- 
sides  " 

"Besides— what?" 

"It  would  make  me  very  happy  to  think  that  I 
served  you'' 

Her  eyelids  fell.    "You  have  served  me." 

"I  rejoice  to  hear  it.    May  I  ask  how?" 

"You've  served  me  by  your  friendship.  You've 
given  me  different  thoughts,  taken  me  out  of 
myself,  done  me  good — in  some  ways."  She 
sighed  deeply.  "I've  learnt  that  there  are  so 
much  realer  things  than  the  shams  that  satisfied 
me  before  we  met.  I've  been  a  very  .  .  .  worldly 
woman;  you  know,  don't  you?" 

"Few  human  beings  are  stronger  than  tempta- 
tions, child,"  he  said  melodiously;  "and  yours 
must  have  been  many." 

"I  used  to  want  you  to  think  me  better  than  I 
am.  Now  I — I  do  and  I  don't.  Oh,  I  can't  ex- 
plain!" 


S52    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"You  are  showing  me  your  heart — ^you  need 
not  spell  it." 

"I  suppose  what  I  mean  really  is  that  I  want 
you  to  know  me  as  I  am,  and  yet  to  hke  me  just 
as  much.    I  wonder  if  you  would?" 

He  laid  a  gentle  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 
*'Why  not  put  me  to  the  test?" 

"I  daren't,"  she  said. 

"Am  I  so  hard?" 

She  shook  her  head,  silently. 

"What  then?" 

"I'm  so  bad,"  she  whispered.  She  drooped  a 
little  nearer  to  him. 

"Why  do  you  say  such  things?"  cried  the  Bish- 
op; "you  hurt  me!" 

"Haven't  you  met  other  sinners?" 

"I  would  have  had  your  past  free  from  sin." 

"Oh,  my  past?"  she  sobbed,  and  bowed  herself 
in  his  arms.  "My  past  is  past — I'm  sinning 
now !" 

Much  may  be  done  by  earnest  endeavour,  and 
he  persuaded  himself  that  his  embrace  was  epis- 
copal. 

"My  child,"  he  murmured  at  last,  soothing  her 
tenderly,  "I  will  not  affect  to  misunderstand 
what  you  have  said — it  would  be  a  false  kindness 
to  you.  Nor  will  I  be  guilty  of  conceahng  the 
transgressions  of  my   own  heart.     Were   I   a 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  353 

younger  man,  I  might  doubt  the  righteousness  of 
owning  that  the  attachment  is  mutual;  but  the 
years  bring  wisdom  and  at  my  age  we  see  deep- 
ly. My  duty  is  to  help  you,  and  I  realise  that  I 
can  help  you  only  by  a  perfect  candour.  I  ack- 
nowledge, therefore,  that  you  are  indeed  most 
dear  to  me." 

"Oh,  you  are  great!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  shall 
see  you  still?  Promise  you'll  come  here — don't 
let  me  lose  you!  Say  it!  Say  again  you  love 
me!" 

"You  are  indeed  most  dear  to  me,"  repeated 
the  Bishop,  who  thought  this  way  of  putting  it 
sounded  more  innocent.  He  got  up  and  paced 
the  room  with  agitation.  "You  ask  me  if  I  will 
still  come  here.  I  do  not  disguise  from  myself 
that  many  might  think  that  I  should  answer  'no' ; 
many  might  hold  it  my  duty  to  desert  you  in  the 
conflict  that  must  be  waged,  to  leave  you  to  bear 
the  brunt  of  it  alone.  I  am  not  one  of  them. 
Flight  is  at  best  the  refuge  of  a  coward.  Dougli- 
tier  than  to  flee  temptation  is  to  confront  and  con- 
quer it."  He  swept  the  hair  from  his  brow  with 
a  noble  gesture.  "I  recognise  that  my  highest 
duty  is  to  share  your  struggles — to  solace  and 
sustain  you.  Yes,  I  will  come!  We  have  a 
mighty  battle  before  us,  you  and  I — and  we  will 
fight  side  by  side,  my  comrade,  till  we  win!" 


354    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

In  other  words,  he  ventured  to  go  to  tea  there 
all  the  same,  and  had  whisky-and-soda  when  it 
wasn't  tea-time. 


II 

How  much  of  what  the  Stage  Door  Club  said 
about  them  was  fact  and  how  much  of  it  was 
fiction,  is  a  thing  that  could  be  decided  only  by 
the  Bishop  or  Miss  Clarges — neither  of  whom  is 
to  be  consulted  on  the  subject.  But  the  Rev. 
Baker  Barling,  who  frequently  dropped  into  the 
Club  for  the  house  dinner,  or  a  game  of  poker, 
heard  the  gossip;  and  Baker  Barling  confided  it 
to  Mrs.  Baker  Barling;  and  Mrs.  Baker  Barling, 
whose  wrath  against  the  Bishop  had  in  no  way 
abated,  manoeuvered  for  the  joy  of  condoling 
with  the  Bishop's  wife. 

Miss  Clarges  was  paralysed  one  morning  by  a 
note  in  which  "Mrs.  Lullieton  Meadows,"  men- 
tioning that  her  husband  was  the  Bishop  of  West- 
borough,  requested  the  actress  to  receive  her  upon 
a  matter  of  the  utmost  importance  the  same  aft- 
ernoon. The  actress's  first  impulse  was  to  be 
"out"  when  the  lady  called;  her  second,  to  tele- 
graph to  the  Bishop  for  advice.  The  fear  of 
driving  Mrs.  Meadows  to  extremities,  and  the 
thought  that  a  telegram  might  fall  into  the  wrong 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  355 

hands,  prevented  her  adopting  either  course.  She 
could  only  pray  for  the  ability  to  persuade  the 
visitor  that  her  suspicions  were  unfounded,  and 
she  felt  sick  with  misgiving  as  the  day  wore  on. 

How  extraordinarv  of  the  woman!  Whether 
she  meant  to  be  offensive,  or  pathetic,  what  a 
folly  of  her  to  come!  On  the  stage,  of  course, 
such  scenes  were  usual,  and  Kitty  Clarges  knew 
exactly  how  she  would  have  to  behave  there — 
that  she  would  be  first  mocking,  then  attentive, 
and  finally  moved  to  repentance.  But  the  the- 
atre was  one  thing,  and  life  was  another.  In  real 
life  it  was  preposterous  of  a  person  to  seek  an 
interview  and  plead  for  the  return  of  a  husband's 
heart;  in  real  life  it  was  impossible  to  return  a 
heart,  even  if  one  wished  to  do  it.  And  in  this 
case,  the  wish  was  lacking;  Miss  Clarges  was  so 
infatuated  by  the  Bishop  that  she  had  even  been 
jealous  to  remember  that  another  woman  had  a 
legal  claim  to  him. 

At  the  tingle  of  the  bell,  she  caught  her  breath. 
She  had  never  seen  "the  other  woman,"  and 
mixed  with  her  apprehension  was  a  strong  curi- 
osity to  know  what  his  wife  was  like.  "Mrs. 
Meadows,"  announced  the  maid.  The  actress 
turned  to  the  doorway,  trembling,  and  saw  that 
the  lady  was  a  dowdy  little  woman  with  a  dreary 


856    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

face;  she  looked  as  if  she  lived  at  Tunbridge 
Wells. 

"Mrs.  Meadows — how  good  of  you  to  call!" 

Mrs.  Meadows  advanced  awkwardly;  it  was 
evident  that  she  was  painfully  embarrassed. 
"Miss  Clarges?  I  hope  I  haven't  put  you  to  any 
inconvenience?"  she  murmured. 

"It  is  an  immense  pleasure  to  me  to  meet  you. 
Won't  you  sit  down?" 

For  an  instant  the  Bishop's  wife  hesitated. 
Then  she  sat  at  the  extreme  edge  of  a  chair,  and 
moistened  her  lips. 

"My  visit  must  appear  very  strange  to  you?" 

"Most  kind!"  said  Kitty  Clarges.  "How  is 
his  lordship  getting  on  with  his  play?  It'U  soon 
be  finished  now,  I  suppose?" 

"I  daresay — I  really  don't  know;  I  didn't  come 
to  talk  about  the  play,"  Mrs.  Meadows  faltered; 
"I  came  because  j^ou  might  do  more  for  me  than 
anybody  else  alive!  Miss  Clarges,  my  husband 
is  in  love  with  you." 

The  start,  the  bewilderment  in  the  eyes,  was 
admirable.    "My  .  .   .  dear  Mrs.  Meadows?" 

"You  need  not  trouble  to  deny  it,"  said  the 
lady  quietly,  "because  he  has  acknowledged  it  to 
me.  But  that  isn't  all — you  are  in  love  with  my 
husband." 

"Are  you  here  to  insult  me?"  cried  Miss  Clarg- 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  357 

es,  rising.  "I  have  the  honour  to  be  one  of  his 
lordship's  friends,  he  has  been  pleased  to  discuss 
his  comedy  with  me.  Not  unnatural,  I  think? 
Especially  as  I  hope  to  produce  the  piece.  As 
for  .  .  .  what  you  say,  there  has  never  been  a 
word,  a  syllable — our  conversation  might  have 
been  phonographed  for  all  London  to  hear."  The 
indignation  of  her  voice  quivered  into  pain.  "I 
wouldn't  have  had  this  happen  for  the  world — I 
can't  understand  it!"  She  struggled  with  a  sob, 
and  suppressed  it  proudly.    "It's  cruel!'* 

"I  don't  wonder  that  he  admires  you,"  said  his 
wife  thoughtfull}^;  "you  have  great  talent.  But 
I  have  seen  one  of  your  letters  to  him.  Here  it 
is! 

Miss  Clarges  gasped,  and  looked  at  it.  She 
sat  down  again  very  slowly.  "All  right,"  she 
said.    "I  am  fond  of  your  husband!    Well?" 

"It  was  finding  your  letter  that  made  me  write 
to  you.  I  heard  weeks  ago  that  he  was  mad 
about  you,  but  the  letter  showed  me  that  you 
cared  for  him.  Oh,  I  know  that  I  oughtn't  to 
have  written !  I  considered  a  long  time  before  I 
made  up  my  mind.  But  there  was  so  much  at 
stake,  I  thought  you  might  help  me.  If  you  will 
listen " 

"What  for?"  exclaimed  Miss  Clarges.  "What's 
the  use  of  my  listening?    Even  if  I  promised  you 


858    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

not  to  see  him  again — I  wouldn't  promise  it,  but 
if  I  did — would  it  make  him  any  fonder  of  you? 
Do  you  think,  if  I  lost  a  man,  I  should  beg  the 
other  woman  to  give  him  back  to  me?  I  should 
know  she  couldn't  do  it ;  I  should  know  I  might 
as  well  beg  her  to  give  me  back — my  innocence. 
And  I  shouldn't  reproach  her,  either!  I'd  re- 
proach myself!  I  should  call  myself  a  fool  for 
not  holding  my  own.  Women  like  me  don't  lose 
the  man  they  want — we  know  how  easy  it  is  for 
him  to  leave  us,  and  we  take  the  trouble  to  keep 
him.  It's  you  good  women  who  are  always  being 
left;  after  you've  caught  the  man,  you  think 
you've  nothing  more  to  do.  Marriage  is  the  end 
of  your  Httle  story,  so  you  take  it  for  granted  it 
must  be  the  end  of  his.  The  more  you  love  him, 
the  sooner  you  bore  him.  You  go  bankrupt  in 
the  honeymoon — you're  a  back  number  to  him 
before  you've  been  married  a  month — he  knows 
all  your  life,  and  all  your  mind,  and  all  your 
moods.  You  haven't  a  surprise  in  reserve  for 
him — and  then  you  wonder  he  yawns.  Great 
heavens!  To  hold  a  man's  interest,  show  him 
your  heart  as  you  pull  out  a  tape  measure — an 
inch  at  a  time.  I  adore  your  husband ;  I  venerate 
him !  My  guilty  love  has  made  me  a  purer  wom- 
an. You  can't  realise  that — I  don't  expect  you  to 
realise  it ;  but  surely  vou  must  know  that — if  you 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  359 

wept  and  went  down  on  your  knees  to  me — I 
couldn't  say,  'Because  the  right's  all  on  your  side, 
he  shall  never  think  about  me  any  more'?" 

"You  misunderstand  the  object  of  my  visit," 
said  Mrs.  Meadows  meekly.  "I  didn't  come  to 
weep  to  you ;  I  didn't  come  to  beg  you  to  say  that 
he  should  never  think  about  you  any  more.  I 
came  to  beg  you  to  tell  me  what  you  find  in  liim 
to  love." 

"Eh?"  ejaculated  Miss  Clarges. 

"I  came  to  beg  you  to  tell  me  what  you  find  in 
him  to  love,"  repeated  the  elder  woman  in  plain- 
tive tones.  "You  see,  to  you  he  is  only  an  epi- 
sode; but  unless  I  choose  to  make  a  scandal — 
and  I  have  daughters  to  consider — I  must  expect 
to  spend  many  more  years  with  him.  If  you  will 
help  me  to  discover  some  attraction  in  him,  it  will 
make  hfe  far  easier  for  me." 

Kitty  Clarges  sat  staring  at  her  dumbly.  "You 
f-find  no  attraction  in  him?"  she  stammered  at 
last. 

"It  is  unconventional  of  me  to  admit  it  to  you; 
but,  as  I  say,  there  is  so  much  at  stake — I  feel 
justified  in  asking  your  assistance.  To  me  he  is 
tedious  beyond  words  to  tell.  If  you  would  ex- 
plain why  you  adore  him,  if  you  would  show  me 
some  merit,  some  spark  of  talent,  or  wit,  or  hu- 
mour, something  to  make  his  pretensions  less  in- 


360    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

tolerable — you  don't  know  how  thankful  to  you 
I  should  be." 

"Your  husband  is  a  great  man."  She  spoke 
with  a  touch  of  uncertainty. 

*'Oh,  no!  And  I  should  be  foolish  to  ask  so 
much — a  moderately  intelligent  man  is  all  that  a 
woman  like  me  has  the  right  to  expect.  The 
Bishop  is  unfortunately  very,  very  dull.  Believe 
me,  I  have  tried  most  conscientiously  to  be  de- 
ceived by  him.  I  used  to  read  his  Press  notices 
and  say,  'Look  what  the  newspapers  say  about 
him — it  must  be  true!'  But  I  knew  it  wasn't. 
I  used  to  listen  to  his  sermons — there  aren't 
many  of  them ;  they've  been  the  same  sermons  for 
twenty  years — and  say,  'What  lovely  language, 
what  noble  thoughts !  How  proud  his  little  Mil- 
dred should  be !'  But,  though  I  was  a  young  girl 
then,  I  knew  that  the  lovely  language  was  all 
sound  and  no  sense,  and  that  the  noble  thoughts 
came  out  of  the  Dictionary  of  Quotation.  O 
Miss  Clarges !  you  are  a  brilliant  woman,  far,  far 
cleverer  than  I — he  must  have  some  stray  virtue 
that  my  earnest  search  hasn  t  brought  to  light  or 
you  couldn't  gush  so  romantically  about  him. 
Help  me  to  see  it !  Think  how  he  wearies  me — 
tell  me  what  the  virtue  is!" 

The  actress  was  breathing  heavily,  her  nostrils 
fluttered ;  on  her  bloodless  cheeks  the  dehcacy  of 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  361 

"Maiden-bloom"  stood  out  in  unbecoming 
blotches.  To  hear  that  she  idoHsed  a  man  whom 
this  little  provincial  in  last's  year's  fashions  dis- 
dained as  a  bore,  robbed  her  of  speech.  She  had 
not  believed  there  could  be  such  depths  of  humil- 
iation in  the  world. 

Some  seconds  passed,  while  the  supphant 
watched  her  wistfully. 

"If  you  don't  care  for  your  husband,  I'm  afraid 
I  couldn't  teach  you  to  love  him." 

"No,  no;  I  only  thought  you  might  help  me 
to  put  up  with  him;  I'm  not  unreasonable — I'd 
be  grateful  for  small  mercies.  If  you'd  mention 
a  ray  of  interest  in  him,  I'd  keep  my  eyes  on  that, 
and  make  the  most  of  it.  .  .  .  You're  not  vexed 
with  me  for  coming?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all;  I — I  suppose  you've  been  very 
.  .  .  amiable,  our  interview  has  been  rather 
quaint;  I'm  sorry  I  can't  oblige  you." 

"Well,"  sighed  Mrs.  Meadows,  "it  can't  be 
helped.  But  I  must  say  I'm  disappointed !  When 
I  found  out  there  was  a  woman  in  love  with  him, 
it  simply  amazed  me !  I  felt  it  only  right  to  con- 
sult you — it  seemed  such  an  opportunity  to  im- 
prove matters  at  heme.  Still,  there  it  is,  if  you 
can't  tell  me,  you  can't  I"  She  was  very  down- 
cast.   "Then  I'll  say  'Good-afternoon.'  " 


362    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"May  I  offer  you  some — tea?"  quavered  Kitty, 
clinging  to  the  mantelpiece. 

"Thank  you  so  much,  but  I'm  afraid  I  must 
be  going  now ;  I  promised  to  see  our  Secretary  at 
the  office  of  the  Mission  Fund  at  four  o'clock- 
Good-bye,  Miss  Clarges.  You  needn't  tell  the 
Bishop  that  I  called.    It  has  been  quite  useless." 

She  sighed  herself  out. 

Now,  though  Kitty  Clarges  endeavoured  to 
persuade  herself  by  turns  that  Mrs.  Meadows 
was  a  fool  incapable  of  appreciating  her  husband, 
and  that  Mrs.  Meadows  was  a  diplomat  scheming 
to  disenchant  her  with  him,  both  endeavours  were 
unsuccessful.  She  could  not  think  the  woman 
an  utter  idiot,  and  still  less  was  it  possible  to 
think  her  a  genius.  Kitty  Clarges  was  less  en- 
tranced by  the  Bishop  in  their  next  meeting.  Be- 
tween them  lurked  a  dowdy  httle  figure,  regard- 
ing her  with  astonished  eyes.  The  astonishment 
shamed  her  as  no  homily  could  have  ever  done. 
The  figure  was  present  at  all  their  meetings,  and 
often  she  lost  sight  of  the  Bishop's  classical  fea- 
tures and  could  see  nothing  but  his  wife's  eyes 
wondering  at  her.  His  eloquence  was  no  longer 
thrilling — she  was  obsessed  by  the  knowledge 
that  it  wasn't  good  enough  for  the  woman  in  the 
modes  of  Tunbridge  Wells. 

Before  long  the  sight  of  her  own  dove-coloured 


THE  BISHOP'S  COMEDY  363 

gowns  began  to  get  on  her  nerves,  and  gradually 
she  discarded  them.  Once,  when  the  Bishop  pro- 
posed to  visit  her,  she  told  him  that  she  would  be 
lunching  out.  A  few  days  later  she  wrote  that 
unforeseen  circumstances  denied  her  the  hope  of 
producing  his  comedy.  His  urgent  letter  of  in- 
quiry remained  unanswered.  When  he  called  for 
an  explanation  she  was  "not  at  home." 


A  REVERIE 

Rebecca  is  in  the  bedroom,  dressing;  and 
Lucy,  who  looked  very  sweet  in  her  simple  frock, 
has  gone  to  some  entertainment  at  her  school.  So 
I  am  alone.  It's  a  comfortable  chair;  and  the 
room  is  quiet,  though  overhead  I  hear  my  wife 
as  she  moves  to  and  fro  between  the  wardrobe  and 
the  toilet-table.  She  has  heavy  feet.  I  am  glad 
she  is  going  to  the  Jacobs's ;  it'll  be  a  treat  to  me 
to  spend  the  evening  by  myself.  What  a  fine  fire 
I've  made  up;  and  my  cigar  tastes  better  than 
usual !  .  .  .  Rebecca  gets  fatter  every  day.  And 
she  has  such  a  silly  laugh.  But  a  good  woman! 
Few  women  would  have  done  so  much  as  she  did 
I  ought  to  remember  that.  But,  instead,  I  am 
always  remembering 

Quite  clearly  I  can  see  the  room  I  lived  in, 
fifteen  years  ago,  with  Dora!  How  cheap  it  was 
— wonderful!  But  with  its  refinements  too;  she 
could  make  such  pretty  things.  Why  did  I  not 
marry  Dora?  My  parents  would  have  been  hor- 
rified if  I  had  married  a  Christian — I  cannot 
think  of  any  other  reason.  Unless  it  was  because 
she  didn't  worry  me  with  entreaties.    She  never 

364 


A  REVERIE  365 

spoke  of  it.  .  .  .  She  had  been  so  poor  and 
friendless;  she  may  have  fancied  that  it  would 
be  ingratitude  to  ask  for  more  than  I  had  done? 
And  the  business  was  my  father's  in  his  lifetime; 
I  could  not  afford  to  quarrel  with  him.  She 
must  have  known  that?  She  must  have  known  I 
could  not  afford  to  quarrel  with  him,  even  if  I 
had  been  enxious  to  marry  her? 

Fervently,  though  it  is  all  past  and  the  shrub 
that  was  planted  on  her  grave  has  grown  big  be- 
yond the  raihngs,  I  hope  she  did  not  gi'ieve!  I 
have  wondered  many  times — since.  She  was  so 
gentle  and  so  pure,  that  perhaps  she  often  suf- 
fered, while  she  smiled  and  kissed  me  ?  .  .  .  And 
she  died  and  was  buried.  And  the  child — the 
baby  Lucy — was  given  to  strangers  to  be  nursed. 
How  long  ago  it  seems — in  another  life.  But  I 
wish  that  Lucy  might  have  called  me  "Papal" 
.  .  .  My  cigar  is  out. 

Rebecca:  she  was  slimmer  when  her  family 
made  up  the  match  between  us.  Yes,  and  good- 
looking.  And  my  sorrow  for  Dora  had  faded — 
two  or  three  years  had  passed.  I  was  my  own 
master  then,  and  business  was  good.  ...  I  was 
happy  with  Rebecca.  I  gave  her  lots  of  diamonds, 
and  the  other  women  envied  her ;  and  at  home  we 
got  on  very  well.  If  we  had  had  children  of  our 
own —    I  wonder! 


S66    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

Lucy  was  four  when  Rebecca  took  her.  She 
asked  no  questions;  to  this  day  she  has  never 
asked  me  anything.  It  shows  a  big  heart.  She 
is  hke  a  mother  to  Lucy.  Shall  I  ever  forget 
how  grateful  I  was  I  The  tears  came  to  my  eyes 
when  she  said  "y^s."  She  should  be  worshipped 
for  such  a  generosity.  But  Lucy  reminds  me  so 
of  Dora! 

Not  at  first — ah,  no;  just  a  little  thing  not  able 
to  talk  plainly!  It  is  recently  that  I  see  the  re- 
semblance. She  is  fourteen  now,  and  with  every 
move  she  brings  back  Dora  before  my  eyes.  She 
has  the  same  features,  the  same  trick  of  smihng 
sometimes  with  the  mouth  a  little  to  one  side; 
she  grows  more  and  more  like  Dora.  I  look  at 
her  across  the  table,  when  she  and  my  wife  and  I 
sit  at  meals  together,  and  my  throat  gets  tight. 
The  past  is  suddenly  alive  to  me,  and  I  want  to 
spring  up  and  throw  my  arms  round  her  neck. 
But  Rebecca  might  guess  the  truth,  and  it  would 
pain  her  to  the  heart  if  she  suspected.  Yet  it  is 
true — and  I  can't  help  it — that  in  the  child  who 
reminds  me  of  the  dead  so  vividly  my  wife  has  a 
rival  here  in  our  home.  It  is  the  child  that  she 
consented  to  adopt  who  reminds  me  innocently 
that  my  wife  is  fat  and  silly;  it  is  Lucy,  who,  as 
I  watch  her  at  her  lessons,  recalls  to  me  the 
thoughtful  face  of  the  girl  I  used  to  love.    And 


A  RE\^RIE  367 

I  regret !  Ah,  God  forgive  me,  I  regret  with  all 
my  soul,  and  would  be  young  once  more,  with 
Dora  by  my  side;  I  would  see  her  by  my  side 
to-day!  .  .  .  How  hot  it  is!  the  window  should 
be  open  such  a  night.  .  .  .  Rebecca  has  come 
downstairs.  She  wears  her  black  satin,  and  pow- 
ders her  nose  again  before  the  mirror.  She  per- 
suades me  to  accompany  her;  I  shall  be  "dull 
alone"? 

"My  head  aches.    Otherwise By-by,  enjoy 

yourself,  my  dearest!" 


THE  RECONCILIATION 

I  HAYE  often  said  that  I  could  not  be  your 
wife,  but  I  would  never  tell  you  why.  To-night, 
suddenly,  I  want  to  tell  you  why,  I  want  to  write 
to  you,    I  wonder  if  you  will  understand. 

You  have  heard  how  my  marriage  ended.  For 
many  months  after  I  divorced  him  I  could  con- 
centrate my  thoughts  on  nothing  but  my  wrongs. 
I  had  no  child,  no  interests ;  the  hurricane  of  pain 
and  jealousy  swept  me  day  and  night.  Then  re- 
sentment grew  less  vehement — faded  into  lassi- 
tude. By  very  slow  degrees  I  concerned  myself 
with  other  things. 

Later,  I  began  to  dwell  on  scenes  of  my  brief 
happiness  with  him,  and  though  remembrance 
made  me  cry  for  the  irrecoverable,  to  remember 
was  sweet.  Moments  which  had  been  trivial  while 
they  lasted  assumed  in  retrospect  an  air  of  ex- 
quisite companionship.  It  was  my  weakness  to 
recall  some  commonplace  incident  and  indulge 
myself  by  reanimating  its  minutest  details;  the 
hours  that  I  lived  most  vividly  were  the  hours  that 
I  lived  in  looking  back. 

Even  when  I  found  pleasure  in  society  again, 

368 


THE  RECONCILIATION  369 

recollection  remained  a  secret  joy.  I  could 
forget  by  this  time  and  amuse  myself,  had  my 
vanities  and  vexations,  was  socially  hke  any  other 
woman,  entertained  in  ordinary  ways,  but  clan- 
destinely I  still  revisited  the  past.  So  thirteen 
years  went  by — and,  unsuspected  by  my  dearest  ' 
friends,  I  communed  mentally  with  a  young  hus- 
band, who,  in  these  reveries,  had  grown  no  older. 

I  tried  to  bear  in  mind  that  he  was  older — much 
older  than  I — but  I  could  think  of  him  only  as  I 
had  seen  him  last.  I  repeated,  marvelling,  that 
he  must  be  over  forty  now,  but  in  my  memories  I 
laughed  and  talked  with  the  personality  that  I 
had  knoMTi.  Although  I  told  myself  that  I  might 
pass  him  unrecognised,  the  face  that  I  smiled  to 
in  my  visions  was  the  face  of  the  young  man  that 
he  used  to  be. 

I  believe  you  have  sometimes  wondered  who 
your  rival  was.  He  was  the  man  that  my  di- 
vorced husband  once  had  been. 

Last  September  I  was  at  Pourville.  One  morn- 
ing in  the  hotel,  glancing  at  an  English  paper,  I 
read  that  he  had  just  arrived  in  Paris.  I  meant 
to  leave  for  Paris,  myself,  towards  the  end  of 
the  week,  and  I  sat  thinking  how  very  soon  he  and 
I  would  be  passing  through  the  same  streets. 
Doubtless  we  had  drifted  close  to  each  other 


370    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

many  times  before,  but  I  had  not  known  it,  and 
somehow —  Well,  the  impulse  was  very  strong, 
I  wrote  to  him ! 

"I  do  not  know,"  I  wrote,  "whether  it  will 
please  or  distress  you  to  hear  from  me.  If  my 
letter  is  unwelcome,  burn  and  forget  it.  Speak- 
ing for  mj^self ,  all  ill-feeling  died  long  ago.  Time 
has  even  taught  me  to  think  of  our  first  year  to- 
gether and  obliterate  the  rest.  Our  marriage  was 
a  blunder,  but — so  much  am  I  changed  from  the 
girl  who  was  your  wife — that  seems  to  me,  to-day, 
no  reason  why  we  should  never  meet  again  as 
friends.  I  shall  be  at  Meurice's  on  Saturday.  If 
a  reconciliation  would  not  be  odious  to  you,  if 
there  is  no  one  to  resent  it,  will  you  come  to  see 
me?" 

When  the  letter  was  posted,  I  said  that  I  had 
committed  an  imbecility,  but  I  am  not  sure  that 
I  believed  myself.  At  any  rate,  I  rejoiced  half 
an  hour  afterwards.  By-and-by,  of  course,  I 
was  sorry  again.  And  so  on.  Then,  on  the  mor- 
row, something  happened — I  found  his  new  vol- 
ume of  poems  on  a  chair  in  the  courtyard.  Have 
you  ever  read  any  of  his  poems  ?  But  I  suppose 
poetry  is  not  in  your  line,  you  great,  strong,  prac- 
tical builder  of  big  bridges?  On  the  fly-leaf  he 
had  scribbled,  "To  Janet  Herbertson,  from  her 
sincere  friend,  Gilbert  Owen."    I  had  picked  up 


THE  RECONCILIATION  371 

the  book  eager  to  read  some  of  it,  but  I  fell  to 
dreaming  over  the  fly-leaf,  wondering  who  Janet 
Herbertson  was. 

While  I  wondered,  she  returned  to  her  seat. 

"Have  I  taken  j^our  book?"  [ 

"Oh,  thank  you!" 

She  was  a  girl  to  whom  I  had  already  spoken 
once  or  twice;  I  had  not  known  her  name,  and 
I  don't  suppose  that  she  knew  mine.  I  call  her  a 
"girl"  because  she  was  unmarried,  but  she  could 
not  have  been  more  than  four  or  five  years  young- 
er than  myself — a  girl  with  a  fine  figure  and 
abundant  health,  but,  to  my  mind  at  least,  no 
features  worth  mentioning.  Her  eyes  were  shal- 
low, and  her  hair  came  near  to  being  sandy.  JNIost 
of  her  remarks  were  prefaced  by  "Of  course," 
and  she  expressed  herself  in  very  incisive  tones. 
I  had  noticed  her  one  day  with  an  easel  among  the 
gorse  at  Varangeville  Plage,  and  I  set  her  down 
as  an  amateur,  with  means. 

"You  didn't  go  to  the  Links,  then?"  I  said. 

"Not  this  afternoon,  I  was  too  much  interested 
in  this.    Have  you  read  any  of  it?" 

"No,  I  only  just  saw  it.  It's  a  new  one  of  his, 
isn't  it?" 

"It  isn't  out  yet  at  all;  this  is  what's  called  an 
'advance  copy';  Mr.  Owen  sent  it  to  me  yester- 
day." 


372    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"I  couldn't  help  seeing  by  the  inscription  that 
you  knew  him.  How  very  nice  to  receive  such 
compliments  from  poets!" 

"Of  course  you  admire  his  work?" 

"I  admire  some  of  it  very  much." 

"Some  of  it?"  She  regarded  me  with  an  of- 
fensive smile. 

"Of  course,  the  best  in  any  art  is  always  un- 
intelligible to  the  Public."  I  was  certain  she  was 
an  amateur  now,  the  arrogance  was  unmistakable. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Emerson —    Have  you  read  Emerson?" 

"Whom's  it  by?"  I  asked  \dciously.  I  saw  her 
shudder. 

"Emerson  was  one  of  the  world's  teachers. 
A  propos  of  the  impressions  to  be  derived  from 
Nature,  he  said  that  a  tourist  could  never  take 
away  from  anj^  place  more  than  she  brought  to 
it.  Of  course  it's  the  same  with  a  reader ;  if  she 
hasn't  the  receptivity,  she  can't  receive." 

This  person  educating  me!  But  I  wanted  to 
hear  about  him ;  I  submitted. 

"I  think  I  follow  you,"  I  murmured.  V 

She  unbent.  "If  you  like  I'll  lend  it  to  you 
presently?" 

"I  should  be  dehghted,  if  you  can  spare  it?" 

"Yes,  I  shan't  read  after  dinner.  In  the  eve- 
ning you  always  play  that  idiotic  game,  though. 


THE  RECONCILIATION  373 

don't  you?  Well,  you  can  have  it  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"If  you're  sure  I  shouldn't  be  robbing  you?" 

"Quite.  Besides,  I've  read  most  of  it  already, 
in  manuscript." 

"Really?  It  must  be  very  fascinating  to  know 
a  poet  so  well  as  that!" 

"Oh,  I  know  Gilbert  Owen  very  well!  If 
you're  staying  next  week,  you'll  see  him  here;'* 
she  tittered  self-consciously:  "I've  told  him  that 
the  rest  would  do  him  good." 

"Here?" 

"Yes,  but  not  till  Wednesday;  I  didn't  want 
him  till  I  had  finished  my  picture.  Of  course,  I 
shan't  have  much  time  for  my  work  after  he 
comes." 

"I  shall  be  gone  by  then,"  I  said.  "What  a 
pity !  I  suppose  there's  no  chance  of  his  coming 
before?" 

"Oh,  no,  he'U  come  on  the  day  I  fixed.'* 

"Wednesday?" 

"Yes." 

"To  oblige  me,  you  might  let  him  come  a  little 
sooner,"  I  laughed. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  that.  You  had  better 
stay." 

"I  wish  it  were  possible.  You  must  be  im- 
mensely proud  of  your  influence?" 


S74i    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  find  myself  quite  for- 
getting he's  famous,  and  thinking  of  him  simply 
as  a  dear  friend." 

In  a  pause  I  glanced  at  her  left  hand.  There 
was  no  ring  on  it,  but  I  knew  that  she  foresaw 
one  there.  She  turned  a  page  of  his  book,  and 
for  a  minute  or  two  we  didn't  speak  again.  Across 
the  begonias  the  musicians  in  their  red  coats  were 
fiddling  drowsily,  and,  inside,  the  croupier  called 
"TsTumero  deux!" 

"What's  he  like?" 

"Eh?  Oh,  it's  so  difficult  to  say  what  anyone 
is  like.  Do  you  mean  his  appearance,  or  his  dis- 
position?" 

"I  think  I  meant  his  disposition.    Amusing?'* 

"Amusing?  No,  I  should  scarcely  describe 
him  as  'amusing.'  Of  course  he  can  be  very  bril- 
liant when  he  meets  a  foeman  worthy  of  his  steel, 
but  his  nature  is  a  wistful  one.  He  has  suffered 
deeply,  and  it  has  left  its  mark." 

"I  think  I  remember  reading  something,"  I 
said.    "Wasn't  there  a  case  of  some  sort?" 

"He  made  a  very  unhappy  marriage  years 
ago,"  she  said  sharply;  "his  wife  was  a  vapid  girl 
who  didn't  understand  him.  He  was  very  much 
to  be  pitied." 

I  nodded.  I  could  have  struck  her  across  her 
conceited  face. 


THE  RECONCILIATION  375 

"It  must  have  been  hideous,"  she  added,  "for 
a  man  of  his  intellect  to  be  married  to  a  fool." 

The  begonias  were  making  my  eyes  ache. 
"Awful,"  I  muttered.  I  wondered  what  in  the 
world  he  could  find  to  admire  in  her.  "Well,  you 
shall  be  left  in  peace.  I've  a  sudden  fancy  for 
Cinq.     It's  my  lucky  number." 

I  didn't  play.  I  sat  watching  the  horses  swirl, 
and  hating  her — hating  my  idiocy  in  having  writ- 
ten to  him.  I  was  jealous.  Is  it  heartless  of  me 
to  say  that  to  you,  dear  man?  I  must  be  frank. 
I  was  jealous  of  her,  and  when  I  had  the  honesty 
to  own  it  at  last,  I  was  glad  that  the  letter  had 
gone.  I  asked  myself  if  she  had  more  attractions 
than  I ;  I  asked  myself — it  was  abominable,  you'll 
despise  me ! — if  I  couldn't  teach  bun  to  humiliate 
her. 

There  was  no  note  for  me  at  Meurice's  when  I 
arrived  on  Friday,  but  I  had  an  instinct  that  he 
would  come  next  day.  I  spent  the  whole  of  Sat- 
urday morning  before  the  mirror,  I  wonder  my 
maid  didn't  give  me  notice ;  I  had  my  hair  dressed 
in  a  new  way,  and  snapped  at  her  till  she  cried 
before  I  was  satisfied  with  it.  Afterwards  I  de- 
cided that  it  didn't  suit  me,  and  my  hair  was  done 
as  usual,  after  all.  The  same  with  my  things,  I 
felt  myself  a  sight  in  everything — my  frock  had 
to  be  changed  three  times. 


376    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

It  was  four  o'clock  wnen  the  waiter  came  up 
and  frightened  me.  ^ly  knees  were  trembling, 
and  the  doorway  was  a  blur. 

"Gilbert!" 

"Nan!" 

*'I'm  glad  you've  come,"  I  got  out,  in  a  horrid 
dry  whisper.  We  shook  hands.  He  was  speak- 
ing, but  I  had  turned  deaf;  I  heard  a  confused 
sound  and  strained  to  distinguish  what  he  said. 
His  face  grew  clear  to  me  before  his  words.  I 
saw  blankly  that  he  was  like  someone  with  a  re- 
semblance to  the  husband  I  had  remembered. 
"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  I  repeated.  It  encour- 
aged me  to  find  that  my  voice  was  louder.  I 
didn't  feel  that  he  was  Gilbert.  He  was  some- 
one queerly  familiar,  but  I  didn't  feel  that  he  was 
Gilbert. 

"It  was  very,  good  and  generous  of  you."  His 
voice  seemed  different,  too.  "You  haven't 
changed  so  much." 

"Ah!" 

"Really!    How  are  you?" 

"All  right.    Won't  you  sit  down?" 

He  twitched  his  trousers  to  save  their  bagging 
at  the  knees.  It  may  have  been  mechanical,  but 
it  hurt  me  that  he  could  do  it  then. 

"You've  been  at  Pourville?" 

"Yes.    Only  for  a  little  while." 


THE  RECONCILIATION  377 

"I've  never  stayed  there.  It's  very  quiet,  isn't 
it?" 

"Oh,  a  mite  of  a  place,  just  the  hotel  and  the 
sea.    There  are  beautiful  walks,  though." 

"You  used  to  be  fond  of  walking." 

"I  am  still." 

"You're  looking  wonderfully  well." 

"You  look  very  w^ell,  too." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  asked.  "Fact?  Not  so 
much  older  as  you  expected?" 

"N— no,"  I  said. 

"]My  hair's  going,  eh?  begins  a  little  further 
back  than  it  used  to,  doesn't  it?" 

"A  little  more  intellectual  brow,  perhaps !  You 
should  try  a  specialist." 

"I've  tried  a  dozen.  They're  no  use.  The 
first  time  you  go,  the  man  tells  you  that  you'll  be 
bald  directly  if  you  don't  use  his  lotions.  'Ah, 
humph!  Well,  I'll  do  all  that  ca7i  be  done  for 
you.'  And  you  buy  bottles  at  half-a-guinea  each, 
and  find  they  make  no  difference.  Then,  when 
you  go  again  to  say  there  isn't  any  improvement, 
he  exclaims,  'My!  I  didn't  hope  to  do  so  much  in 
the  time.  This  is  splendid.  Look  at  all  that  new 
hair  coming  up!'  Of  course  you  like  to  believe 
him,  and  you  go  on  buying  his  rubbish  for  twelve 
months.  A  hair  specialist  lives  by  his  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  not  his  knowledge  of  the  hair." 


378    THE  :\IAX  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 


I  knew  that  he  was  talking  for  effect  and  I 
laughed,  to  gratifj^  him.  He  glanced  round  the 
room. 

"You're  very  comfortable  here." 

"Yes;  this  is  where  I  generally  stay." 

"Are  you  often  in  Paris?" 

"Not  very  often;  I'm  in  London  a  good  deal." 

"Z  never  go  to  London,  excepting  to  see  a  pub- 
hsher;  the  atmosphere  is  fatal.  In  London  I'm 
conmionplace.  Positively.  The  murk  gets  on 
mj"  genius.  Give  me  a  blue  sky  and  God's  sun- 
shine! All  artistic  natures  are  very  susceptible 
to  external  influences.    You  know  that?" 

"I  remember  you  used  to  say  so.'* 

"It's  just  the  same  with  me  now;  I  haven't 
altered,  I  feel  just  as  I  felt  when  I  was  a  boy. 
I'm  young — just  as  young  in  myself.  That's 
what  keeps  my  work  so  fresh,  that's  what  people 
rave  about.  Other  men's  stuff  ages ;  mine  doesn't 
— everybody  says  so — the  spirit  of  it's  as  youth- 
ful as  when  I  was  twent}^  Temperament — tem- 
perament!" 

I  sickened  at  the  word ;  formerly  that  had  been 
his  apology;  to-day,  I  saw  it  was  his  boast.  Pres- 
ently I  inquired  about  his  favourite  sister,  if  she 
was  weU.  "I  don't  know,  I  don't  often  see  her 
now,"  he  said  indifferently.  I  spoke  of  a  chum 
he  had  lost,  a  man  at  whose  death  I  had  pictured 


THE  RECONCILIATION  379 

him  grief-stricken.  "It  must  have  been  an  aw- 
ful blow  to  you  ?"  I  asked.  "Oh,  he  had  got  rath- 
er tedious,"  he  answered;  "Charhe  was  a  bit  of 
an  ass."  He  proceeded  to  tell  me  an  anecdote 
of  a  woman  who  had  paid  him  a  fulsome  compli- 
ment. While  he  aimed  eagerly  at  making  an 
impression — while  his  sole  thought  was  to  show 
me  how  brilliant  and  fascinating  he  remained — 
he  revealed  to  me  that  every  tendency  I  had  once 
condemned  had  developed  to  a  salient  feature  of 
his  character,  that  every  blemish  I  had  once  re- 
gretted had  grown  to  be  a  glaring  fault. 

I  am  sure  that  vanity  would  have  urged  him  to 
gain  my  admiration,  even  if  he  had  found  me 
faded  and  a  frump ;  I  am  sure  that  he  had  come 
with  that  desire ;  but  his  eyes  told  me  he  found  me 
charming,  and  his  note,  by-and-by,  I  think,  was 
unpremeditated. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  worthier  of  you,"  he  said. 
He  said  it  ver)^  beautifully,  but  late.  So  much 
too  late  to  give  me  any  pleasure ! 

"Don't  let  us  talk  about  the  past,"  I  mur- 
mured. 

"My  coming  here  to-day  will  make  me  regret 
it  more  still." 

"I  hope  not — I  didn't  mean  to  give  you  pain. 
Perhaps  it  was  foolish  of  me  to  write." 

"Ah,  you  know  I  am  glad  you  wrote.    Only — 


380    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

It  won't  be  the  last  time  I  see  you?  Don't  say 
that."  His  gaze  dwelt  on  me  sentimentally.  "I 
wish  it  were  the  first!  If  I  had  just  been  pre- 
sented to  you,  we  might  have  become  great 
friends,  Nan.    Who  knows?" 

"I  trust  we  are  friends." 

He  sighed.  "It's  noble  of  you  to  say  so,  but 
the  'friendship'  you  can  give  me  now  is  only  a 
gentler  name  for  'pardon.'  I  might  have  looked 
forward  to  something  sweeter  if  we  had  just  met, 
I  might  have  won  your  esteem,  your  confidence 
— perhaps  even  your  love.  I  wonder  if  you  know 
what  it  has  meant  to  me  this  afternoon,  to  be 
here  like  this — with  a  wall  of  formality  between 
me  and  the  woman  who  used  to  be  my  wife?  The 
torture,  the  shame  of  it !  My  heart  is  full  of  emo- 
tion, but  I  may  only  speak  to  you  of  trivial  sub- 
jects; I  want  to  pour  out  my  remorse  at  your 
feet  and  feel  your  arms  about  me  in  forgiveness, 
but  I  may  only  touch  your  hand,  like  a  stranger. 
When  we  parted,  I  was  a  boy,  who  ruined  his 
own  happiness ;  to-day  I  am  a  man,  and  I  realise 
what  I've  lost." 

"You  make  me  miserable." 

"Every  day  I  have  thought  of  you.  My  life 
— empty!    What  is  anything  without  you?" 

"You  mustn't  talk  to  me  like  this." 

"I  can't  help  it.    Nan,  I'm  so  wretched!" 


THE  RECONCILIATION  381 

"It's  my  fault  for  making  j^ou  come  here." 

"No,  no.    But  let  me  see  you  again.    Tell  me 
I  may  come  to-morrow." 
I  can  t. 

"It's  Sunday — ^let  us  lunch  at  Versailles,  or 
Saint- Germain,  or  somewhere — let  us  go  into  the 
country.  I  know  a  perfectly  lovely  spot  we  can 
motor  to  in  an  hour,  and  the  hotel  is  really  quite 
decent.    Say  you  will!" 

"I'm  expecting  people  to-morrow." 

"Well,  Monday?  Tuesday?  You'll  be  free 
on  Tuedsay?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Then  Wednesday  ?  I  w^as  going  to  the  sea  on 
Wednesday,  but  I'll  stay.  Promise  to  spare  me 
Wednesday." 

How  easy  it  had  been !  I  saw  the  sandy-haired 
girl's  mortification,  saw  her  fuming,  week  by 
week,  w^hile  he  dangled  at  my  side.  JNly  petty 
plan  had  triumphed — but  it  brought  no  joy. 

"I  am  leaving  Paris,"  I  said.  And  when  he 
went,  I  think  he  was  conscious  that,  after  all,  his 
visit  had  been  a  failure. 

But  he  was  speedily  at  ease  again,  I  know,  tor 
those  who  have  no  deep  affections  avoid  much  of 
life's  unhappiness.  For  the  selfish  is  the  peace. 
The  suffering  was  for  the  woman  who  had  felt — ■ 
for  me,  to  whom  the  reconciliation  had  proved 


882    THE  IMAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

more  painful  than  the  estrangement — for  me, 
whom  reahty  had  robbed  of  a  dream  I  Always  I 
had  seen  him  as  he  had  been — now  I  could  see 
only  the  man  he  had  become.  Our  meeting  had 
killed  Remembrance ;  I  could  spend  hours  in  the 
past  no  longer.  I  tried,  I  tried  for  months,  but 
the  spell  was  gone.  The  husband  of  my  youth 
would  come  to  my  mind  no  more — I  met  only  a 
middle-aged  poseur,  from  whom  I  turned  and 
fled. 

Best  of  men,  how  I  seem  to  you  I  do  not  know, 
but  I  have  owned  the  truth.  There  is  nothing 
more  for  me  to  write.  Excepting — well,  all  day 
long  I  have  wished  that  you  were  with  me,  and 
I  am  feeling  very  much  alone, 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST 

Once  there  was  a  prosperous  solicitor,  and  he 
had  two  sons.  The  elder  he  took  into  his  office; 
the  younger  he  sent  to  the  Bar.  The  younger 
boy's  name  was  Robert,  and  he  was  generally 
called  "Bob."  The  elder  boy's  name  was  Ed- 
ward, and  no  one  ever  called  him  "Ted." 

Edward  went  to  the  office  with  satisfaction.  He 
was  a  shrewd  youth  who  made  useful  friends,  and 
didn't  allow  pleasure  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
profit.  Before  he  had  been  in  the  business  two 
years  he  bullied  the  head  clerk,  and  it  was  pre- 
dicted that  he  would  "go  further  than  his  father.'* 
Bob  entered  his  profession  negligently.  He  was 
a  genial  fellow  who  liked  bohemian  clubs,  and 
wrote  farces  that  were  never  produced.  Before 
he  had  been  at  the  Bar  two  years  he  succumbed 
to  an  unconquerable  passion  and  went  on  the 
stage. 

The  stage  had  not  then  become  the  smartest 
vocation  in  England.  Viscounts  occasionally 
married  dancing-girls,  but  socially  that  was  as 
high  as  the  theatre  had  climbed.  It  may  be  diffi- 
cult for  Enghsh  people  of  to-day  to  credit  it,  but 

883 


S84)    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

though  old  Mr.  Blackstone  was  simply  a  solicitor, 
he  felt  humiliated  when  his  son  "took  to  play- 
acting." What  will  be  understood  more  easily,  is 
that  he  was  wrathful  in  thinking  of  the  money 
he  had  wasted  to  make  a  barrister  of  a  crank. 
He  told  the  crank  that  he  washed  his  hands  of 
him,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  talked  rather  like 
the  irate  parents  in  the  comedies  in  which  Bob 
Was  going  to  perform. 

Nevertheless  his  growl  was  worse  than  his  bite 
' — in  which  he  resembled  the  comedy  parents 
again.  Ascertaining  that  Bob's  salary  was  to  be 
fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and  that  the  histrionic 
career  was  precarious,  he  undertook  to  make  an 
annual  contribution  of  forty  pounds,  payable 
quarterly,  for  the  term  of  three  years.  "At  the 
end  of  which  time,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  ought 
to  be  able  to  support  yourself,  if  you  have  really 
any  aptitude  as  a  buffoon." 

Barring  the  "buffoon,"  Bob  was  of  the  same 
opinion.  Don't  laugh  at  him,  he  was  young.  He 
slammed  the  door  of  his  chambers  rejoicing,  and 
— because  his  father  wished  him  to  change  his 
name — he  dropped  the  "Blackstone"  and  called 
himself  "Lawless."  The  old  man  remarked  that 
"Senseless"  would  be  better  still,  but  Bob  thought 
not. 

Now  if  this  had  been  a  nice,  edifying  story, 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  385 

with  a  Moral  presented  gratis  to  every  purchaser. 
Bob  would  have  had  only  two  courses  open  to 
him.  He  would  either  have  succeeded  brilliantly 
and  moved  his  father  to  tears  of  pride,  or  he 
would  have  found  the  discomforts  unbearable  and 
returned  repentant.  In  reality  he  didn't  succeed 
at  all,  and  he  had  never  been  so  happj^  in  his  life. 

His  sole  regret  was  that  the  tour  was  short,. 
for  when  it  finished  he  was  out  of  an  engagement. 
He  remained  out  of  an  engagement  much  longer 
than  he  had  been  in  one,  and  subsisted  on  the 
parental  allowance.  The  change  from  the  flesh- 
pots  of  Regent's  Park  was  severe,  and  if  any- 
thing could  have  cooled  his  stage  fever,  it  would 
have  been  cooled  now,  but  it  defied  even  semi- 
starvation.  By-and-by  he  obtained  another 
small  part,  and  his  temperature  was  higher  still. 
Confidently  he  assured  himself  that  by  the  time 
the  allowance  was  withdrawn  he  would  be  inde- 
pendent of  it.    And  that  was  where  he  erred. 

At  the  end  of  the  three  years  he  was  pacing 
the  Strand.  He  had  had  hard  luck,  and  old  Mr. 
Blackstone  was  hard  too.  He  stuck  to  his  gims; 
Bob  must  shift  by  his  own  abilities  henceforward, 
or  Bob  must  go  back  to  the  Bar.  Bob  was  foot- 
sore, hungry  and  penniless;  Bob  went  back  to  the 
Bar. 

Of  course  there  was  still  his  pen.    His  hopes  as 


S86    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

an  actor  had  been  shivered,  but  to  his  ambitions 
as  a  dramatist  he  clung.  His  pen  was  the  spar 
in  the  shipwreck.  The  night  was  black,  but  afar 
the  footlights  beamed.  Buffeted  as  he  was,  he 
might  regain  them  by  his  pen. 

So  he  wrote  more  farces — farces  and  bur- 
lesques, and  one  or  two  melodramas  as  well.  His 
father  did  not  know  that.  Robert  Blackstone, 
the  budding  barrister,  preserved  appearances; 
and  Robert  Lawless,  the  panting  playwright, 
preserved  his  manuscripts — for  they  all  came 
back.  All,  that  is  to  say,  with  the  exception  of 
a  farcical  comedy  which  he  had  actually  sold  for 
twenty-five  pounds  but  which  had  never  been 
staged.  Some  of  his  work  was  good,  but  in  Eng- 
land the  chief  qualifications  for  artistic  success 
are  commercial  ability,  and  the  money  to  exploit 
it;  Bob  lacked  both.  By  degrees  he  became 
weary  of  trying  to  reach  the  limelit  shore,  his 
struggles  grew  fainter;  by  degrees  "Robert  Law- 
less" took  some  interest  in  Robert  Blackstone.  He 
thought  of  the  Bar  more,  and  of  the  Theatre  less. 
One  day  when  his  father  told  him  he  had  "han- 
dled the  brief  uncommonly  well,"  he  was  elated. 
He  was  nine  and-twenty  now. 

Robert  Blackstone  had  begun  to  cut  "Robert 
Lawless"  out — was  travelling  faster,  proving  the 
better  of  the  pair.     And  "Lawless,"  who  felt 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  38T 

rather  sore  about  it  at  first,  presently  forgave 
him.  Bob  began  to  look  less  like  a  Bob  and  more 
hke  a  Robert.  People  noticed  "what  a  strong 
resemblance  there  was  between  hinl  and  his 
brother."  As  an  earnest  young  barrister  he  no 
longer  frequented  bohemian  clubs.  It  was  under- 
stood that  one  mustn't  go  round  to  Plowden 
Buildings  any  more  and  waste  his  time.  Nobody 
said  to  him  now,  "Come  and  have  a  drink,  old 
chap!"  Occasionally  someone  might  say,  "Will 
you — er — take  a  glass  of  sherry,  INIr.  Black- 
stone  ?" 

As  the  years  passed,  even  that  was  seldom  said. 
He  had  shaken  off  the  dust  of  Plowden  Build- 
ings, and  had  chambers  in  Garden  Court.  His 
humour  was  becoming  heavy.  The  mothers  of 
marriageable  daughters  found  it  convulsing.  He 
was  spoken  of  as  a  man  with  a  future,  and  dined 
at  dreary  houses.  Old  Blackstone  died,  and  as 
Robert  was  making  a  handsome  income  he  was 
mentioned  in  the  will  with  abimdant  generosity. 
Wherefore  he  was  rich.  So  was  Edward  the  so- 
licitor, who  had  a  wife  and  three  children  now. 
Edward  was  proud  of  his  brother;  he  wanted  him 
to  take  silk,  and  to  stand  for  Beckenhampton 
later.  Robert  was  thinking  of  these  things  him- 
self. His  age  was  forty-one.  And  here  ends  the 
prologue. 


S88    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

So  we  see  that  this  unedifying  story  may  be 
said  to  begin  at  a  point  long  after  all  orthodox 
stories  have  concluded — it  really  begins  twelve 
years  after  the  prodigal  reformed.  Reformation, 
we  know,  is  always  final — in  stories.  When  the 
prodigal  has  once  returned  to  the  odour  of  sanc- 
tity we  are  quite  sure  that  he  will  never  desire 
change  of  air ;  we  understand  that  he  will  always 
be  just  as  good  and  peaceful  as  we  leave  him 
on  the  last  page.  Human  nature  is  m^de  like 
that — in  stories. 

One  May  afternoon,  as  Robert  came  out  of 
court,  a  man  murmured  to  another,  "He's  a  dry 
stick,  is  Blackstone!"  and  Robert  overheard,  and 
smiled  his  dry  smile.  Yes,  he  supposed  that  was 
his  social  reputation  at  the  Bar.  As  he  joined 
Edward,  and  listened  to  his  pleased  comments 
on  the  Jury's  finding,  he  even  admitted  to  him- 
self that  the  reputation  might  be  deserved.  Odd ! 
how  very  different  from  a  "dry  stick"  he  had  been 
once. 

Edward  was  animated — for  Edward.  He  kept 
nodding  his  grey  head,  and  pinched  his  nose  re- 
peatedly between  his  forefinger  and  thumb,  a 
habit  that  he  had  in  conversation.  They  stood 
talking  in  the  street  for  about  ten  minutes.  It 
occurred  to  Robert  with  a  touch  of  faint  surprise 
that  he  had  long  ceased  to  shirk  his  brother's 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  389 

company;  yet  there  was  no  doubt  that  Edward 
was  quite  as  dull  a  dog  as  he  had  ever  been.  As 
they  talked  there,  outside  the  Law  Courts,  Rob- 
ert compassionated  himself  a  little  for  not  being 
bored  by  Edward. 

He  had  been  cheerful  as  he  unrobed,  but  the  re- 
mark he  had  caught  lurked  in  his  ears,  and  when 
he  entered  his  chambers  he  found  himself  repeat- 
ing it.  "For  the  defendant,"  a  pleasant  phrase 
to-day,  was  momentarily  forgotten;  "a  dry  stick" 
sounded  in  his  mind  instead.  He,  *'Bob,"  had 
actually  become  a  "dry  stick"! 

And  he  was  only  forty-one.  He  lit  a  cigarettCi 
and  mused.  Beyond  the  open  window  the  flowers 
of  the  garden  were  bright  in  sunshine,  and  the 
fountain  tinkled  dreamily.  There  was  a  nurse- 
maid with  a  child  among  the  flowers;  he  won- 
dered, for  a  moment,  whether  he  would  have  done 
well  to  marry. 

Marvellous,  in  looking  back,  how  suddenlj'-  suc- 
cess had  come! — marvellous  to  remember  how 
hard  he  had  had  to  flog  his  brain  at  the  beginning 
to  earn  a  legal  guinea ;  if  one  managed  to  turn  the 
second  corner  at  the  Bar  at  all,  one  sped  on  with 
a  rush.  But  how  unlikely  it  had  looked  that  he 
would  ever  turn  that  corner! 

How  unlikely  it  had  looked  in  the  days  when 
he  belonged  to  the  Amity  Club  and  fellows  used 


S90    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

to  quote  his  jokes  he  flashed  over  a  tankard  and 
a  steak  at  three  in  the  morning!  If  his  boyish 
hopes  had  been  justified,  if  he  had  had  talent  as 
an  actor,  perhaps  hfe  would  have  tasted  better 
to  him,  after  all?  "Robert  Blackstone,  K.C." 
He  would  soon  be  that.  "Robert  Blackstone, 
K.C.,  M.P."?  He  might  expect  it.  "Sir  Rob- 
ert Blackstone,  SoHcitor-General"  ?  It  was  on 
the  cards.  Why  wouldn't  his  heart  swell  at  the 
prospect,  why  didn't  he  catch  his  breath,  what 
the  deuce  had  become  of  all  his  emotions? 

Oh!  he  was  getting  sentimental,  listening  to 
the  fountain.  Shut  the  window,  ring  the  bell, 
see  what  briefs  had  come  in ! 

"And  a  letter,  sir." 

"All  right,"  said  Robert,  "put  it  down." 

The  eagerness  with  which  he  used  once  to  seize 
his  briefs — the  swift  glance  to  learn  the  fee,  the 
impatience  to  gather  the  contents!  Other  in- 
comes, other  manners — he  pulled  the  tape  off 
leisurely  to-day.  "  'A  dry  stick' !"  he  reiterated. 
Oh,  one  had  to  pay  for  success,  there  was  no 
doubt. 

His  gaze  wandered  to  the  letter,  and  rested 
on  it,  startled;  a  little  quiver  ran  through  him. 
For  several  seconds  a  sensation  that  was  half 
pleasure,  half  pain,  held  him  quite  still.  The 
letter  had  been  redirected  from  Plowden  Build- 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  391 

ings.     It  was   addressed   to   "Robert   Lawless, 
Esq.," — c|o  himself! 

*'T.  R.,  Hetton-Le-Hole, 

Durham,  May   1st. 

"Dear  Sir, — I  have  come  across  the  scrip  of 
your  farcical  comedy  entitled  No  Flies  on  Flossie^ 
all  rights  of  which  I  acquired  some  years  ago. 
It  is  a  bit  antique  in  parts  now,  and  I  think  you 
might  like  to  bring  it  up  to  date.  I  am  putting 
it  on  at  O.H.  Ashton-under-Lyne  to  see  how  it 
shapes.  We  rehearse  at  P.O.W.  Manchester. 
The  first  Call  is  for  twelve  o'clock,  Monday,  18th 
inst. — Yours  faithfully, 

"Cavendish  Pink." 

When  the  colour  had  crept  back  to  his  face, 
Robert  laughed — the  perfunctory  laugh  that  he 
gave  to  a  Judge's  joke.  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. He  put  the  letter  down,  and  laughed  again 
— he  was  acting  to  himself  unconsciously.  After 
a  minute  or  two  he  picked  it  up  and  re-read  it. 
How  had  Cavendish  Pink  come  by  the  play? 
"Acquired"  it?  Not  from  the  author.  But  the 
adventures  of  the  manuscript  were  unimportant. 
Pink  ?  Pink  had  been  a  rather  popular  comedian. 
On  the  see-saw  of  life  ]Mr.  Pink  had  gone  down 
while  ]Mr.  Blackstone  went  up. 

For  the  third  time  he  read  the  letter.      He 


S92   THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

knew  that  "T.R."  stood  for  "Theatre  Royal," 
but  the  other  abbreviations  had  mystified  him. 
It  recurred  to  him  with  emotion  that  "O.H." 
meant  "Opera  House,"  and  that  "P.O.W." 
meant  "Prince  of  Wales's."  That  he  could  have 
forgotten  these  things  even  for  a  moment!  He 
drummed  his  fingers  on  the  briefs,  and  saw  his 
Youth. 

Of  course  he  could  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
matter.  "No  Flies  on  Flossie — the  work,  we  un- 
derstand, of  Mr.  Robert  Blackstone,  the  well- 
known  barrister,"  etc.  He  shuddered  in  imagin- 
ing such  a  paragraph.  He  said  that  it  was  lucky 
"Robert  Lawless"  was  forgotten;  certainly 
"Robert  Lawless"  would  reveal  nothing  to  any- 
one who  saw  the  piece  at  Ashton-under-Lyne,  and 
doubtless  its  "run"  would  begin  and  end  there. 
If  he  were  silent,  nobody  would  suspect  his  con- 
nection with  it.  But — well,  if  this  had  happened 
a  few  years  earlier,  he  would  have  gone  down  to 
the  place,  just  for  a  day,  to  see  the  performance. 
He  said  he  would  have  felt  curious  about  it — a 
few  years  ago! 

Three  or  four  hours  had  passed  before  he  con- 
fessed to  himself  that  he  was  curious  now.  He 
was  in  his  library  after  dinner;  and  though  he 
had  no  intention  of  humouring  his  curiosity,  he 
humoured  his  mind.     It  dwelt  on  scenes  in  the 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  393 

farce  that  had  appeared  to  him  brilliant  when 
he  wrote  them.  Would  they  appear  brilliant  to- 
day? He  remembered  the  evening  when  he 
scribbled  "Curtain,"  and  Dick  turned  up  and 
heard  the  last  act  read.  "Jove!  I  didn't  think 
you  had  it  in  you,"  Dick  had  said;  he  was  sitting 
on  the  window-sill — how  it  all  came  back! — how 
time  flew!  The  score  of  hopes  and  disappoint- 
ments the  work  had  brought;  with  what  passion 
he  had  despaired  at  that  age!  Could  he  despair 
so  passionately  at  this?  And  then  the  excite- 
ment when  the  thing  was  taken — what  a  whirl- 
wind of  exultance!  That  night  that  he  got  the 
news.  He  had  dragged  Dick  out  for  oysters  just 
before  Scott's  closed,  and  afterwards  they  had 
sat  up  talking  till  daylight.  The  piece  was  to  be 
produced  a  few  weeks  hence,  and  Dick  had  stip- 
ulated for  tico  stalls  on  the  first  night,  to  take 
his  girl.  .  .  .  Thirteen  years  ago!  And  Dick 
was  dead. 

On  the  morrow  Robert  decided  that  he  might, 
after  all,  run  down  to  Ashton-under-Lyne.  He 
said  he  would  not  enter  the  stage-door,  no  one 
should  surmise  that  the  author  was  present;  he 
would  simply  take  a  seat  in  the  dress  circle  like 
anybody  else.  Why  not?  To  associate  himself 
with  No  Flics  on  Flossie  was  impossible,  but  to 
resist  the  desire  to  peep  at  it  would  be  motiveless. 


394    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

No  doubt  when  he  was  in  the  theatre  he'd  be 
hotly  ashamed  of  having  perpetrated  such  trash. 
Still 

He  made  no  reply  to  Cavendish  Pink.  He  was 
not  ppepared  to  revert  to  comic  dialogue,  even 
under  a  pseudonj^m,  nor  did  he  see  his  way  to 
correspond  on  the  subject.  Probably  it  would  be 
inferred  that  the  letter  had  gone  astray,  or  that 
Mr.  Lawless  had  died.  Well,  he  was  dead.  Yet 
Robert  Blackstone  owned  to  himself  that  he  re- 
gretted being  unable  to  attend  Bob  Lawless's  re- 
hearsals. He  did  not  own  it  all  at  once,  he  re- 
gretted it  for  some  time  before  he  owned  it.  Then 
he  said  again  that  if  this  had  haiipened  a  few 
years  earher,  he  might  have —  Eh?  Just  for 
a  day  or  two?  Yes,  he  would  have  given  him- 
self the  fun  then!  It  wouldn't  have  mattered  so 
much  a  few  years  earlier. 

How  ardently,  in  the  period  when  he  was  a 
small-part  actor,  he  had  looked  forward  to  strid- 
ing about  a  stage  as  the  author  and  telling  the 
company  what  to  do!  He  had  never  rehearsed  in 
a  West  End  theatre,  or  he  would  have  known 
that  authors  are  rather  small  fry  after  the  plays 
are  written.  It  had  been  his  dream.  The  author! 
And  of  course  he  would  be  privileged  to  smoke — 
he  had  imagined  himself  with  a  cigar  between  his 
lips,  and  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  a  fur  over- 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  395 

coat.  In  his  dream  it  was  generally  winter,  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  wear  a  fur  overcoat.  Nice 
girls  waylaid  him  in  the  wings,  and  said,  "Do 
write  in  a  line  for  me  to  speak,  Mr.  Lawless, 
pleaseT  And  he  did.  The  courtly  consideration 
that  he  had  always  shown — in  his  dream — to  the 
humblest  members  of  the  cast!  The  glowing 
terms  in  which  everyone  had  spoken  of  him — in 
his  dream !  ...  It  would  have  been  agreeable  to 
go  to  IManchester  for  the  rehearsals. 

About  a  week  later  he  said  that  of  course  he 
wouldn't  be  so  stupid,  but  that  as  a  matter  of  fact 
he  could  go  if  he  chose;  he  could  go  as  "Mr.  Law- 
less" !  It  was  in  the  highest  degree  unlikely  that 
anyone  in  a  third-rate  provincial  company  would 
know  his  face.  He  wouldn't  do  it,  because  he 
had  long  ago  left  such  follies  behind,  but  there 
was  really  nothing  else  to  prevent  him. 

"The  first  Call  is  for  twelve  o'clock,  Monday, 
18th  instant."  Constantly  the  man  thought  of 
it,  sometimes  he  fingered  the  letter  again;  daily, 
in  the  drawer  of  his  desk,  under  the  documents, 
under  the  briefs,  it  tempted  him — the  Call  from 
the  past. 

Oh,  out  of  the  question! 

He  supposed  it  would  be  a  folly? 

After  all,  should  he  go? 

If  the  Easter  Term  did  not  end  on  the  IGth  of 


396    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

May,  there  would  have  been  no  story ;  but  it  does. 

He  felt  strange  to  himself  when  he  took  his 
ticket  on  Sunday.  He  felt  excited,  nervous, 
guilty.  On  the  platform  he  avoided  a  man  whom 
he  knew.  He  realised  the  sensations  of  a  fugitive 
from  justice,  and  threw  an  apprehensive  glance 
about  the  restaurant  car.  What  should  he  say 
if  he  were  asked  where  he  was  going?  He  was 
sorry  the  rehearsals  were  to  be  held  in  a  big  city 
like  Manchester;  what  more  likely  than  that  an 
acquaintance  would  run  against  him  in  the  street? 
As  to  the  hotel,  it  would  brim  with  danger:  at 
any  moment  someone  might  exclaim,  "How  d'ye 
do? — what  has  brought  you  here?"  But,  to  be 
sure,  he  merely  meant  to  remain  in  an  hotel  for 
the  night — on  the  morrow  he  would  go  into  lodg- 
ings. They  would  be  extremely  uncomfortable, 
but  at  all  events  they  would  be  private,  and  it 
was  only  for  a  week,  after  all.  A  week  would 
soon  pass.  He  found  himself  wishing  that  it  had 
passed  already. 

Rain  was  falling  when  he  arrived  at  Man- 
chester. He  spent  a  melancholy  evening  in  the 
"smoke-room."  Presently  he  saw  a  theatrical  pa- 
per, and  turning  it  over,  observed  advertisements 
of  "professional  apatrments";  several  of  the  ad- 
vertised houses  were  in  Manchester.  The  idea 
of  installing  himself  in  theatrical  lodgings  again 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  397 

carried  a  little  tremor  with  it ;  but  it  was  not  un- 
pleasant. These  addresses  to  his  hand,  moreover, 
would  spare  him  trouble. 

Rain  was  falling  when  he  shaved.  ISTo  matter 
— it  would  be  well  to  make  his  arrangements  be- 
fore he  went  to  the  rehearsal!  He  breakfasted 
briskly,  opposite  a  commercial  traveller  who  per- 
formed extraordinary  feats  with  a  knife  and  fork. 
At  ten  o'clock  he  had  his  bag  put  on  to  a  cab. 
"All  Saints,"  he  said,  for  in  JNIanchester  all  theat- 
rical landladies  and  All  Saints  are  neighbours. 

The  side  streets  of  All  Saints  were  not  prepos- 
sessing. As  he  rang  the  first  bell,  he  glanced 
about  him  wonderingly.  Had  he  really  been 
happy  in  places  like  this  when  he  was  young? 
He  was  relieved  when  the  slatternly  householder 
answered  that  she  had  only  a  "combined  room." 
He  interviewed  several  householders  without  suc- 
cess. 

Gradually  the  manner  in  which  he  made  his 
applications  lost  something  of  its  legal  stiffness ; 
he  laboured  for  a  touch  of  the  old-time  freedom 
which  he  knew  was  demanded  by  the  situation. 
He  rang  another  bell,  and  a  young  woman  in 
curling-pins  came  to  the  door. 

"What  rooms  have  you  got  this  week?"  asked 
Robert,  uneasily  familiar. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  the  woman. 


S98    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"I  want  a  sitting-room  and  bedroom,"  he  said. 
And  she  was  able  to  accommodate  him. 

Against  the  piano  was  a  pile  of  comic  songs; 
on  the  mantelpiece  there  were  likenesses  of  per- 
formers in  tights.  The  rooms  were  cosily  fur- 
nished, and  the  rent  was  ten  shillings  a  week  in- 
clusive of  gas  and  fires ;  the  ^Manchester  weather 
was  still  chilly. 

"I'll  take  them,"  said  Robert. 

When  he  had  unpacked  his  bag,  he  smoked  a 
cigar  in  the  parlour,  and  smiled.  "One  always 
returns  to  one's  first  love,"  he  mused ;  and  really 
the  first  love  looked  attractive,  though  he  viewed 
the  signboard  of  a  "mechanical  chimney-sweep" 
through  the  window. 

Presently  he  asked  his  landlady  for  her  card, 

"I'll  have  to  give  you  my  professional  card," 
she  said,  "but  it  has  got  the  address  on  it;  I'm  in 
the  profession  myself." 

He  read,  "Mdlle.  Superba:  Terpslchorean 
Gymnast." 

"That's  me,"  she  said,  pointing,  "that  portrait 
there.  I  only  let  rooms  as  a  'obby — I  don't  let 
regular  all  the  year  round.    Think  it's  good?" 

"It  doesn't  flatter  you,"  said  Robert.  But  she 
was  captivating  in  her  gymnast's  costume;  he 
would  never  have  supposed  the  photograph  was 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  399 

meant  for  her.  "I'm  fortmiate  to  find  you  'let- 
ting' this  week.'* 

"Well,  it's  like  this,  it  gives  me  something  to 
do  when  I'm  at  home.  That's  what  my  husband 
says;  he  says,  'It  gives  you  something  to  do.' 
And  I  don't  take  ladies,  they're  a  bit  too  much — 
'Can  we  'ave  some  'ot  water,  Ma?'  all  hours  of 
the  day;  'Can  I  come  and  'eat  my  curling-tongs 
in  the  kitchen  fire,  JNIa?'  Ladies  are  a  handful, 
and,  as  I  saj%  I  only  let  as  a  'obby.  I'm  going 
on  tour  again  in  August.  Perhaps  you've  seen 
me  in  the  Halls?" 

"I've  often  applauded  you  in  the  Halls,"  he 
said,  courteously  untruthful;  "I  was  puzzled  why 
your  face  was  so  familiar  to  me."  He  was  con- 
scious that  he  hadn't  recovered  the  note  yet,  he 
knew  that  he  was  being  much  too  formal.  Could 
he  pluck  up  the  spirit  to  call  a  landlady  "Ma" 
again  himself? 

There  was  an  unaccustomed  exhilaration  in  his 
veins  as  he  drove  to  the  Prince  of  Wales's;  he 
did  not  define  the  feehng,  but  what  he  felt  was 
"younger."  When  the  cab  jerked  to  a  stoppage, 
his  pulses  beat  like  a  lover's.  He  leapt  out,  and 
saw  "Stage  Entrance"  painted  on  a  dirty  door. 
Again  he  pulled  a  stage-door  open.  "What 
name?"  he  was  asked;  "Mr.  Lawless,"  he  an- 
swered.   And  all  at  once  he  did  not  know  if  he 


400    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

was  happy  or  ashamed;  but  he  knew  that  he 
trembled. 

The  theatre  looked  dark  for  the  first  minute. 
He  received  a  dim  impression  of  ill-dressed  peo- 
ple, drew  a  breathful  of  mouldy  atmosphere  that 
swept  him  back  into  the  past.  A  vociferous  man 
shook  hands  with  him,  and  called  him  "my  boy." 
*'So  you've  turned  up,  my  boy !  That's  all  right. 
Afraid  you  hadn't  had  my  note." 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Pink,"  responded 
Robert. 

They  sat  down  in  the  stalls  swathed  in  hoUand 
wrappers,  and  the  mist  before  him  melted.  The 
ill-dressed  people  acquired  features;  he  realised 
that  the  rehearsal  had  begun,  and  that  the  figures 
on  the  stage  were  the  butler  and  the  maid-servant 
reading  the  opening  scene  of  his  farce. 

"It  wants  freshening  up,  Lawless,"  said  Mr. 
Pink;  "it's  a  bit  Noah's  Arky  here  and  there — 
old-fashioned.  Still  I  think  there's  stuff  in  it. 
I'd  like  you  to  keep  your  ears  open,  see  where  you 
can  stick  in  some  lines.  Make  it  modern,  my  boy, 
make  it  a  bit  topical;  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Oh — er — of  course,"  said  Robert  with  dismay. 
"Yes,  certainly  I  must  see  what  I  can  do." 

He  was  painfully  embarrassed ;  he  had  not  felt 
so  nervous  since  the  day  he  heard  himself  plead- 
ing in  court  for  the  first  time.    When  the  vocif- 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  401 

erous  man  left  him,  he  thanked  Heaven.  Vaguely 
he  thought  of  making  his  escape,  of  sending  a 
telegram  to  say  he  was  recalled  to  town. 

"Mr.  Lawless?" 

A  pale,  shabby  girl  had  come  to  him.  She  had 
very  beautiful  grey  eyes;  he  was  surprised  that 
he  had  overlooked  her. 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

*'I'm  to  play  'Flossie' — I  wanted  to  ask  you  a 
question  about  her.  Is  she  simple  in  the  first  act, 
or  only  putting  it  on?" 

He  had  no  longer  any  views  on  the  subject,  but 
it  would  never  do  to  say  so. 

"Simple,"  he  said.  "Oh,  decidedly  simple  in 
the  first  act." 

"That's  what  I  thought!"  she  nodded,  "and 
Mr.  Pink  wants  me  to  do  it  the  other  way — Mr. 
Pink  says  she  is  only  putting  it  on." 

He  perceived  that  he  had  encouraged  her  to 
defy  the  management. 

"Of  course,"  he  added  hastily,  "when  I  say 
'simple,'  I  mean  relatively  simple — everything  is 
relative." 

"Oh,  y-e-s,"  she  said.  But  she  was  evidently 
at  sea.  After  a  moment  she  went  on,  "What  I 
really  want  to  know  is  how  she  is  to  speak  those 
lines  sitting  on  the  hamper — is  she  sincere  in  that 
speech  or  isn't  she?" 


402    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"That,  of  course,  is  the  question,"  murmured 
Robert.  "Yes,  precisely.  That  speech  is  the — 
-the " 

"It's  the  keynote  to  the  part,"  she  said. 

He  wished  distressfully  he  could  remember 
what  speech  she  meant.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he 
had  better  be  frank! 

"To  be  quite  honest  with  you,"  he  said,  "I 
wrote  the  piece  a  good  many  years  ago;  and 
since  then  I " 

"Oh,  I  see!"  she  laughed.  "How  funny!  Since 
then  j^ouVe  written  so  many  others  that  you've 
forgotten  what  it's  about?" 

"Exactly,"  said  Robert;  "that  is  to  say,  not  at 
all.  I  haven't  written  any  others,  but  I  have  for- 
gotten what  it's  about." 

They  regarded  each  other  silently  for  a  mo- 
ment. .  .  .  She  seemed  a  singularly  nice  girl. 

"I  was  quite  a  young  man  when  I  wrote  it," 
he  said  abruptly. 

"And  you've  done  nothing  since?" 

"Well — er — not  in  the  dramatic  line.  You're 
rehearsing  my  last  attempt." 

"Oh,  I  do  hope  it'll  be  a  success!"  she  said 
earnestly,  "then  you'll  go  on  working.  It  must 
be  rather — rather  queer  to  see  us  rehearsing  a 
piece  you  wrote  so  long  ago?" 

"It  is,"  said  Robert,  "very  queer."    He  paused 


THE  CALL  IHOM  THE  PAST  40S 

again — he  was  again  abrupt:  "Once  I  knew  every 
line  of  the  three  acts  by  heart." 

She  hfted  her  eyes  to  him  gravely,  and  didn't 
speak  for  a  second.  He  liked  her  for  not  speak- 
ing— he  saw  that  she  understood. 

"How  it  must  take  you  back!"  she  whispered. 

He  sighed — and  smiled.  "So,  you  see,  Mr. 
Pink  probably  knows  more  about  your  part  to- 
day than  the  author  does. — Er — you  needn't  tell 
all  the  company  what  I've  said." 

"As  if  I  should!"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh!  there's 
my  cue,  I  must  fly!" 

"Miss  Wilson!"  shouted  Pink.  "Come  on. 
Miss  Wilson,  please — take  up  your  cues!" 

"My  fault,"  called  Robert,  'Tm  to  blame." 

She  looked  back  over  her  shoulder,  smiling  at 
him  as  she  ran,  and  somehow  the  rehearsal  was 
more  interesting  to  Robert.  The  nice  girl  read 
the  lines  he  had  invented  thirteen  years  before — 
and  listening  to  her,  he  remembered. 

Rain  was  falling  when  the  rehearsal  finished. 
She  hadn't  an  umbrella.  "Which  way  do  you 
go?"  he  asked  as  the  stage-door  slammed. 

"All  Saints,"  she  replied;  "Rumford  Street." 

"That's  my  way,  too.  I  want  a  cab — I  can 
give  you  a  lift." 

"A  cab?"     She  was  openly  astonished.     "If 


404.    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

you  must  squander  money,  you  can  take  a  penny 
car.    But  why  not  walk?" 

"Is  that  what  you  do  in  the  wet?" 

"Well,  if  I  took  a  cab  every  time  it  was  wet  in 
Manchester,  my  salary  wouldn't  go  far,  would 
it?" 

"I  have  no  idea  what  your  salary  is." 

"Three  pounds,"  she  said  frankly.  "It  isn't 
much  for  a  leading  lady,  eh?" 

"It  isn't  much  for  a  leading  lady,  but  it's  a 
good  deal  for  a  young  girl.  In  any  other  business 
three  pounds  a  week  wants  a  lot  of  earning." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  said.  "I've  got  young 
brothers  in  the  city.  They  call  me  'the  million- 
aire of  the  family.'  '* 

"Do  they  like  your  being  on  tour  alone?" 

"Well,  you  see,  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  earn 
my  own  living;  things  weren't  very  bright  at 
home  when  I  grew  up.  I  don't  spend  all  my 
salary  on  the  delicacies  of  the  season — I  send  half 
to  my  mother  every  week.  I  couldn't  be  any  help 
to  her  if  I  were  in  a  clerkship  like  the  boys. 

"But  you're  fond  of  the  stage,  aren't  you? 
lYou  sounded  enthusiastic  when  you  floored  me 
with  those  questions." 

She  slu*ugged  her  shoulders.  "At  the  begin- 
ning I  was  in  love  with  it;  I've  been  in  the  pro- 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  405 

fession  eight  years  now.  You're  giving  me  all 
your  unbrella." 

"There's  no  expense  attached  to  that,"  said 
Robert. 

The  cars  were  full,  and  she  was  evidently  averse 
from  a  cab;  so  they  went  along  Oxford  Street 
afoot,  keeping  close  together. 

"I  suppose  you'll  go  and  see  a  show  to-night?" 
she  inquired. 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  he  said.    "ShaU  ymir 

"There's  nothing  else  to  do  when  one  isn't 
playing.  It's  ghastly  sitting  in  diggings  all  the 
evening,  isn't  it?" 

"It  must  be  dull  if  you're  alone,"  he  assented. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  his  own  evening  was  going 
to  be  very  dull  indeed. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  alone,  I'm  with  the  girl  who 
plays  'Aunt  Rachel';  but  it's  dull  anyhow.  We 
thought  of  asking  for  seats  at  the  St.  James's." 

"I — I  think','  said  Robert,  "that  I'll  go,  too. 
Perhaps  I  shall  see  you  there.  Or  we  might  all 
go  together,  mightn't  we  ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  she  replied,  "it  would  be  very  nice. 
Let's!" 

"It  would  be  delightful  I"  said  Robert  "Yes, 
let's  1" 

They  had  reached  her  door,  and  she  asked  him 
if  he  would  go  in  and  have  some  tea.    He  said  he 


406    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

would.  They  found  the  other  girl  at  home,  toast- 
ing crumpets.  Miss  Wilson  toasted  crumpets. 
Robert  toasted  crumpets  also.  They  all  knelt 
on  the  hearthrug  and  toasted  crumpets  together. 
His  hostesses  cried  that  they  were  "rising  in  their 
profession,  having  the  author  to  tea!"  He 
laughed.  He  cracked  a  joke.  He  wondered 
what  Edward  would  say  if  he  could  see  him. 

At  the  St.  James's  the  girls  obtained  two  stalls 
for  nothing,  and  Robert  insisted  on  paying  for 
one,  though  Miss  Wilson  reproved  him  for  such 
waste  of  money.  "We  could  quite  easily  have 
asked  for  three,"  she  said.  "It  is  silly  of  you! 
You  make  me  angry." 

Greatly  daring,  he  proposed  supper  when  the 
performance  was  over.  The  restaurants  of  Man- 
chester were  far  to  seek,  but  he  didn't  know  that ; 
he  even  told  himself  that  it  mattered  nothing  if 
he  were  recognised;  the  girls  were  ladies,  a  man 
had  a  right  to  take  his  friends  to  supper!  How- 
ever, they  wouldn't  go;  that  is  to  say.  Miss  Wil- 
son wouldn't  go;  the  other  girl  looked  as  if  she 
wanted  to.  Miss  Wilson  said  he  must  wait  to  see 
if  his  piece  was  a  success.  "If  it  makes  a  hit, 
well — perhaps!"  He  understood  that  she  took  it 
for  granted  he  was  poor — she  wouldn't  let  him 
be  extravagant:  the  situation  was  not  without  a 
charm. 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  40T 

They  chattered  gaily  as  far  as  her  apartments. 
"I  can't  ask  you  in  after  the  show,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"No,  I  know,"  he  said — "I  remember!"  As 
he  strolled  on,  he  reflected  that  the  day  had  been 
remarkably  agreeable.  He  made  for  his  lodging 
in  high  good  humour.  In  Oxford  Street  he 
started,  he  received  a  shock,  almost  he  staggered 
— ^he  had  perceived  that  he  was  whistling! 

The  terpsichorean  gj^mnast  gave  him  eggs 
boiled  to  perfection  in  the  morning,  and  much 
better  coffee  than  he  got  at  home.  As  he  tapped 
the  second  shell,  it  occurred  to  Robert  that  he  had 
not  opened  a  newspaper  yesterday.  Extraordi- 
nary! How  often  he  had  winced  in  recollecting 
that  he  never  looked  at  a  newspaper  when  he  was 
a  provincial  actor!  And  actually  he  had  been  as 
bad  again.  He  bought  The  Manchester  Guard- 
ian, and  other  papers  after  breakfast — and  kept 
glancing  at  the  clock. 

It  was  rather  jolly  to  sally  forth  to  rehearsal, 
though  when  it  was  time  to  go,  rain  was  falling. 
He  entered  the  theatre  with  zest  to-day.  Even  he 
resented  less  stiffly  the  vociferous  man's  calling 
him  "my  boy."  Miss  Wilson's  pale  face  smiled 
at  him  as  at  a  friend.  He  conversed  with  one 
or  two  other  members  of  the  company,  and  saw 
his  way  to  inserting  a  topical  allusion  in  the 


408    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

dialogue.  Pink  pronounced  it  "devilish  good." 
Robert  the  Reviving  was  gratified  that  Pink 
thought  his  line  "devilish  good."  When  he  was 
asked  vociferously  if  he  would  "come  across  and 
have  a  drink,"  he  didn't  say  "no."  They  drank 
prosperity  to  the  piece  in  a  vulgar  bar.  And  he 
took  back  a  box  of  sandwiches,  and  Peggy  Wil- 
son, and  "Aunt  Rachel,"  and  he  shared  them  in 
the  stalls. 

Almost  the  next  thing  that  Robert  realised 
vividly  was  that  it  was  Friday.  Rain  was  falling. 
It  amazed  him  how  the  interval  had  flown. 
"Aunt  Rachel"  had  gone  over  to  Bury,  where  her 
fiance  was  playing  at  the  Royal,  and  Miss  Wil- 
son, left  alone,  was  coming  in  to  tea.  Robert 
had  ordered  cream  with  the  tea,  and  simnel  cake. 
He  stood  at  the  window  eager-eyed;  the  sign- 
board of  the  "mechanical  chimney-sweep"  did  not 
obtrude  itself  to  him.  He  remembered  how  long 
it  was  since  he  last  watched  for  a  girl  to  come 
to  tea. 

But  when  she  turned  the  comer  he  remem- 
bered only  that  he  was  to  have  a  gracious  after- 
noon. He  wheeled  the  armchair  to  the  hearth 
for  her,  and  brought  her  a  footstool.  She  was 
less  talkative  than  usual.  Somehow  the  first  few 
minutes  were  disappointing. 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  409 

"I  have  to  go  on  Tuesday,"  he  marked  pres- 
ently; "and  then  it'll  be  all  over." 

"But  you're  coming  to  Ashton-under-Lyne  for 
the  production?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  be 
able  to.  I  wish  I  hadn't  to  go  back — I  haven't 
enjoyed  anything  so  much  for  years.  By  the 
way,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favour — I  want  you 
girls  to  come  to  supper  with  me  on  Monday  night. 
I  thought  we  might  go  and  see  a  show" — he  didn't 
notice  that  he  was  saying  "show"  again,  instead 
of  "theatre" — "and  have  a  little  supper  here 
afterwards.  I'd  suggest  a  restaurant,  but  there'd 
be  no  time  to  eat  anything  before  we  were  turned 
out." 

"What  would  your  landlady  say?" 

"I've  sounded  her.  I  said,  'I  suppose  you 
wouldn't  think  there  was  any  harm  in  my  bring- 
ing two  ladies  in  to  supper  after  the  show  one 
evening?'  'Certainly  not,  Mr.  Lawless,'  she  said. 
'Would  you  like  it  hot?'  That's  a  landlady  that 
is  a  landlady.    Will  you?" 

"We'll  see  about  it,"  said  Miss  Wilson. 

"You  might  say  'yes,'  "  he  begged.  "Give  me 
a  happy  memory  for  the  end." 

"But  it  won't  be  the  end;  we  shall  often  see 
you,  shan't  we,  if  the  piece  runs?" 


410    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

"Perhaps  it  won't  run.  And  even  if  it  does — 
I'm  a  busy  man." 

"Too  busy  to  think  of  your  pals?  What  do 
you  do?" 

"Are  we  pals?"  he  questioned.  "I'm  yours; 
but  are  you  mine?  Really?  You've  known  me 
such  a  very  little  while." 

"No  longer  than  you've  known  me." 

"It's  not  the  same  thing,  though.  You  meet 
lots  of  men;  I  don't  meet  lots  of  girls.  To  me 
this  week  has  been  quite  out  of  the  common;  to 
you  it's  only  one  of  the  fifty-two." 

"What  do  you  do  in  London?"  she  inquired 
again.    "What  are  you?" 

"A  dry  stick,"  said  Robert. 

"Well,  you  aren't  a  dry  stick  in  Manchester!'* 
she  said. 

It  was  not  a  brilliant  reply,  but  she  couldn't 
have  made  one  that  would  have  pleased  him 
more. 

Yet  the  tea  was  a  failure.  She  never  ate  cake, 
she  told  him;  somehow  she  didn't  care  for  tea 
either  this  afternoon — she  sipped  about  a  quarter 
of  a  cupful.  He  had  scarcely  stirred  his  own 
when  she  was  declaring  she  must  go:  "You  won't 
think  it  rude  of  me  if  I  run  away  now?"  He 
gave  her  her  muff  blankly.  A  creature  of  moods, 
as  changeful  as  an  April  day !    But  when  she  was 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  411 

sunny,  how  sunny!  The  table  looked  pathetic 
to  him  when  she  had  gone.  He  stood  at  the  win- 
dow, downcast;  the  signboard  of  the  chimney- 
sweep darkened  the  road. 

JNIademoiselle  Superba  put  the  simnel  cake 
on  the  top  of  the  piano,  because  there  wasn't  a 
sideboard,  and  it  stood  there  uncovered  till  it  was 
dusty.  Then  the  night  of  the  supper  arrived,  and 
there  were  a  galantine,  and  prawns  in  aspic,  and 
a  mayonnaise ;  and  the  first  thing  the  creature  of 
moods  did  when  she  came  in  was  to  pounce  on 
the  dusty  cake  and  devour  a  slice  before  she  took 
her  hat  off. 

"Peggy!"  exclaimed  the  other  girl  reprovingly. 

"I  may?"  she  cried,  flashing  a  glance  at  Rob- 
ert. Yes,  she  knew  she  might!  She  knew  she 
might  do  anything  she  chose  there.  "I'm  going 
to  have  more  light!"  she  said,  and  lit  another 
burner  of  the  gaselier. 

Mademoiselle  Superba — majestic  in  black  silk, 
with  pendent  pearls  in  her  ears,  and  her  hair 
dressed  like  Truefitt's  window — looked  in  for  a 
moment  to  ask  if  all  was  well.  Robert  thanked 
her  for  doing  it  so  extremely  well.  Peggy  said 
sweetly,  "I  hear  you're  in  the  profession  too?" 
The  woman  was  pleased  at  that.  So  was  Robert 
— it  was  nice  of  Veggy.  Because  there  was  no 
sideboard,  cutlery  and  plates  were  set  forth  on 


412    THE  MAN  WHO  UKDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

the  piano;  because  there  were  no  champagne 
glasses,  they  drank  the  champagne  out  of  tum- 
blers. 

"Didn't  I  forbid  you  to  be  extravagant?'*  cried 
Peggy. 

He  liked  "forbid."    "Forgive  me  I"  he  smiled. 

"This  once,"  she  laughed.  "But  you  must  be 
very  economical  in  London." 

"I  shall  have  no  parties  like  it  in  London,  I 
assure  you." 

"Nor  I !"  said  she. 

"Do  you  live  in  London?" 

She  threw  him  a  nod.    "Crouch  End." 

"Tell  me  more,"  he  urged.  "And  let  me  give 
you  both  some  salad." 

"More?  Well,  once  we  had  a  servant.  Now 
we  haven't.  I  do  housework  when  I'm  at  home 
— I  blacklead  the  grates.  That's  why  my  hands 
aren't  pretty." 

"Don't,"  he  said,  pained.  Her  hands  weren't 
pretty,  but  he  revered  them  now  he  knew  the 
reason. 

"Peggy!"  said  the  other  girl,  dismayed.  The 
other  girl  was  obsessed  by  "manners"  when  she 
was  out. 

"I'm  frightfully  untidy  in  the  morning.  In 
novels  the  poor  heroine  always  has  on  'snowy 
cuffs  and  collars'  with  her  rags.     Pickles!     In 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  413 

real  life  the  poor  heroine  has  to  think  of  the  laun- 
dry bills.  Oh,  you'd  be  shocked  at  me  in  the 
morning!  After  the  boys  have  gone,  I  turn  a 
room  out  sometimes — my  skirt  pinned  up,  and  a 
duster  over  my  head.  Can  you  see  me  ?  Mother's 
not  very  strong — the  cooking's  business  enough 
for  mother.  Then  I  go  up  to  the  agents'  and 
try  to  get  something  to  do.  In  a  very  smart  cos- 
tume! with  a  picture  hat — I  made  it! — and  white 
gloves.  Oh,  you'd  be  impressed  by  Peggy  in  the 
afternoon;  you  wouldn't  recognise  me  dn  tlip 
Strand.  You're  not  seeing  my  best  clothes  here, 
don't  think  it — I'm  in  an  engagement,  I'm  stop- 
ping the  expenses!" 

"Peggy!"  groaned  the  other  girl  again.  He 
divined  a  kick  under  the  table.  "You're  coming 
down  to  see  the  dress  rehearsal  on  the  5th,  Mr. 
1  awless?"  she  struck  in. 

"It  would  be  a  treat  to  me,  but  I  can't;  I've 
somewhere  else  to  go.'* 

"It  would  be  a  'treat'  to  himl"  pealed  Peggy. 
"We  shall  be  kept  in  the  theatre  half  the  night — 
we  shall  be  dog-tired — and  he  would  find  it  a 
'treat'!  What  it  is  to  be  young!  Where  have 
you  to  go,  Mr.  Dramatist?" 

"I  have  to  go  to  a  very  dull  public  dinner  on 
the  5th,"  he  said.     "I  shall  think  of  you  dog- 


414)    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

tired  in  the  Garden  Act  when  they  serve  the 
chapon  7'dti/' 

"Send  us  the  chapon  rotif*  she  said,  *'it'd  be 
much  more  use."  She  snatched  a  sprig  of  pars- 
ley from  a  dish  and  stuck  it  in  her  hair.  "Mother 
always  tried  to  kill  my  passion  for  dress  I"  she 
cried. 

He  proffered  her  mayonnaise,  and  she  said  she 
wanted  to  play  the  piano.  Though  he  feared  that 
even  a  landlady  who  was  a  terpsichorean  gym- 
nast might  have  objections  to  her  rattling  "Flor- 
odora"  at  one  in  the  morning,  his  spirits  were  high 
until  she  forsook  the  music-stool  and  sank  to 
reminiscence  on  the  hearthrug.  Then  she  made 
his  heart  ache;  she  told  him  some  of  her  vicissi- 
tudes— no  engagement,  no  money,  no  food.  His 
eyes  filled  as  he  listened.  What  this  girl  had  been 
through ! 

It  was  two  o'clockc  He  saw  his  guests  Home. 
(Rain  was  falling.)  "Good-night — good-bye." 
He  looked  at  Rumford  Street  for  the  last  time — 
how  familiar  it  had  become !  "Don't  forget  me," 
he  heard  himself  whisper,  clasping  Peggy's  hand. 
Her  gaze  assured  him.  She  went  in — the  step 
was  desolate;  he  turned  thoughtfully  away. 

And  as  he  walked  back,  to  the  room  where  she 
had  been,  he  knew  he  was  in  love — with  her,  with 
the  Theatre,  with  the  life  he  used  to  lead.    In  the 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  415 

wet,  black  streets  of  Manchester  he  saw  the  naked 
truth,  and  he  reahsed  that  his  Hfe  was  a  failure. 
A  man  could  change  his  envu'onment,  but  not 
himself.  He  felt  that  he  would  be  happier  earn- 
ing three  pounds  a  week,  like  her,  on  the  stage 
than  he  would  ever  be  as  Robert  Blackstone,  K.C. 
One  mustn't  say  these  things,  but  he  felt  it — felt 
that  he  would  rejoice  to  be  a  minor  actor  again, 
and  see  'Peggy  in  the  morning,  and  see  Peggy 
every  day. 

No  Flies  on  Flossie  tottered  for  six  nights, 
died,  and  was  buried.  You  may  read  those  facts 
elsewhere.  These  are  facts  concerning  No  Flies 
on  Flossie  which  you  may  read  only  here.  And 
in  Garden  Court,  Temple,  there  was  for  a  long 
time  a  distinguished  barrister  debating  a  subtle 
point.  He  questioned  if,  when  he  made  a  trip  to 
the  past  and  grew  enamoured  of  it,  he  fell  in  love 
with  a  girl,  or  only  with  an  atmosphere.  Because 
that  he  was  in  love,  still  in  love,  was  indisputable ; 
he  looked  back  constantly  and  yearned.  The  sole 
doubt  was,  with  what  was  he  in  love?  It  was  the 
weak  spot  in  the  case,  and  with  his  usual  keen- 
ness he  had  put  his  finger  on  it — he  discerned  how 
liable  he  was  to  be  deceived,  how  naturally  he 
might  be  attributing  to  the  girl  the  fascination 
that  belonged  to  the  surroundings.  If  it  was  the 
atmosphere  that  lent  Peggy  enchantment,   he 


416    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

would  be  insane  to  choose  a  wife  so  different 
from,  say,  the  placid  matron  who  blessed  Ed- 
ward. Per  contra,  if  he  loved  Peggy  herself,  why 
should  he  tramp  the  room  like  this,  instead  of 
asking  her  to  marry  him? 

He  swore  he  did  love  the  girl  herself. 

He  trembled  lest  her  halo  was  the  limelight. 

Then  having  come  to  a  conclusion,  Le  found 
her  advertisement  in  The  Stage,  and  wrote  ask- 
ing her  to  call  on  him  "at  Mr.  Blackstone's  cham- 
bers." 

She  went  promptly.  The  dignified  clerk  ush- 
ered her  into  Robert's  presence,  and  Robert  had 
never  seen  that  room  look  so  gay. 

"How  good  of  you  to  come!"  he  exclaimed 
happily. 

"How  good  of  you  to  think  of  me,  you  mean!" 
she  said — "I've  been  out  ever  since  No  Flies  fin- 
ished; have  you  written  another  piece,  and  are 
you  going  to  offer  me  a  good  part  in  it?  I  say, 
you  do  know  swells !" 

"Who,  Blackstone?" 

She  nodded.  "Do  you  think  he'll  come  in  while 
I'm  here?  I  was  reading  about  him  the  other  day 
— Miss  Peggy  Wilson  would  be  going  strong, 
meeting  celebrities  of  the  Bar.  This  is  the  Black- 
stone,  isn't  it,  the  K.C.?" 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  41T 


"He's  a  very  recent  K.C.,"  murmured  Robert; 
"there's  his  new  wig  in  that  box." 

"Oh,  do  let  me  look!"  she  said,  darting  radiant- 
ly.   "May  I?" 

"You  may  even  try  it  on,  if  you  like,"  said 
Robert;  "he  wouldn't  mind." 

She  had  her  hat-pins  out  in  a  second.  "Oh, 
isnt  Peggy  going  strong!"  she  laughed.  "How 
does  it  suit  me?"  And  then  turning  from  the 
strip  of  glass,  "Why  are  you  so  grave  all  of  a 
sudden?    Didn't  you  mean  me  to?" 

"Yes,  yes;  I  was  thinking  what  a  fool  I  had 
been  not  to  beg  you  to  come  sooner,"  sighed  Rob- 
ert.   "Take  it  off,  and  let  me  talk  to  you." 

"Serious?" 

"Very  serious — an  engagement." 

"You  are  a  trump,"  she  said;  "I  wanted  one  so 
badly." 

"Ah,  but  you  mustn't  accept  this  one  unless 
you  like  it,  and  I  hope  you  won't  mind  its  being 
a  short  engagement.  Peggy,  I  love  you.  I  love 
the  ground  you  walk  on,  and  the  clothes  you  wear, 
and  everything  you  say  and  do.  Will  you  be  my 
wife?" 

"Oh!"  she  gasped.    Her  face  was  colourless. 

"Can't  you  care  for  me?" 

"I  do  care,"  she  whispered,  and —  It  seemed 
incredible,  yet  they  were  round  her !  and  his  heart 


418    THE  MAN  WHO  UNDERSTOOD  WOMEN 

was  thumping  like  a  boy's.  "Oh,  my  sweet!"  he 
stammered,  releasing  her  at  last.  Just  like  a  boy 
again — "Oh,  my  sweet!" 

And  her  colour  had  come  back,  and  she  smiled 
up  at  him,  with  the  smile  that  no  other  woman  had 
ever  equalled.  "Let  me  put  on  my  hat  before 
Blackstone  comes  in,"  she  said  joyously;  "look 
what  you've  done  to  my  hair — it'd  give  us  away!" 

"Peggy,"  said  Robert;  "Fm  Blackstone." 

The  smile  faded;  she  stood  gazing  at  him  wide- 
eyed. 

"I  called  myself  'Lawless'  when  I  wrote  that 
farce,  and  then  I  chucked  writing  and  went  in 
for  the  Bar.  I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  thing 
for  years  when  I  got  Pink's  note,  but  I  couldn't 
resist  going  down  to  the  Call;  I  went  as  a  lark, 
nobody  knew  me,  I  thought  it  wouldn't  make  any 
difference.  And  then  I  met  you,  Peggy — and  it 
made  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  Why  don't 
you  laugh?" 

"You  are  a  great  man,"  said  the  girl  solemnly; 
"you  oughtn't  to  marry  me." 

"Oh,  my  dearest  dear,"  he  cried,  "don't  you 
understand  that  I — the  real  'I' — am  the  man  you 
saw  there,  and  that  only  you  do  see  the  real  'me'  ? 
London  has  forgotten  the  author  of  that  piece, 
but  he  didn't  die,  darling — his  heart's  just  the 
same,   though   he   looks   so   different.     Robert 


THE  CALL  FROM  THE  PAST  419 

Blackstone's  the  man  who  wears  the  wig  and 
go^vTi,  and  can  make  things  right  for  your  mother 
and  the  youngsters,  and  who'll  give  you  a  title 
by-and-by,  my  love;  but  your  husband'll  be  the 
bohemian  who  toasted  the  crumpets,  and  lodged 
at  mademoiselle  Superba's,  the  terpsichorean 
g}^mnast.  You  shan't  have  time  to  wish  for  any- 
thing— I'd  like  to  buy  the  Earth  for  you! — and 
you  must  come  to  hear  me  speak,  and  I  want  you 
to  be  proud  of  our  position;  but  at  home  I  shall 
always  be  the  'boy'  who  fell  in  love  with  you, 
Peggy,  the  'Bob  Lawless'  who  went  to  look  for 
his  youth — and  found  it!" 

Beyond  the  open  window,  the  flowers  of  the 
garden  were  bright  in  sunshine,  and  the  fountain 
tinkled  dreamily.  There  was  a  nurse-maid  with 
a  child  among  the  flowers ;  he  knew  with  thanks- 
giving that  he  was  doing  well  to  marry. 

"Will  you  kiss  me  again,  sweetheart?" 

"Yes,"  she  sM—^'Bobr 


The  End 


T 


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University  of  California,  Los  Angeles 


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